The Sanguine Witch
by InkwingsInc
Summary: While being tortured for information at Malfoy Manor, Hermione uses the last shreds of her magical ability to cast a blood bond between herself and a dark wizard in a desperate act of survival. Antonin Dolohov can't hurt her, but he wants to. Badly. (Drama, angst, and most horribly - eventual romance)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Long time, no see! After nearly a decade away from contributing fanfiction to this website I've decided to jump back on the bandwagon with a new account and give back to the wonderful fandom that's helped me kill so much time over the years. I'll generally try to keep my author's notes short—if not at the end of the chapter—but I feel like there's a few things that need to be said before we embark on this journey.**

 **First: Disclaimer. The sandbox belongs to J.K. Rowling and I'm just building castles in it.**

 **Second: This story will be rated M as it progresses. I'll never get too explicit, but this work deals with some disturbing themes and has a lot of canon-typical violence. Although I hope I don't go too off the deep end with these characters I fully intend on making them as grey as possible. The lines between the light and dark will be explored here.**

 **Third: This is a Hermione Granger/Antonin Dolohov story. I have a sweet tooth for dark, unlikely pairings in fanfiction; unfortunately this is a bit of a rarepair and I haven't seen a lot of it floating around. This relationship will be far from healthy, please be warned. I tend to wallow in the shadows.**

 **Fourth: I'm writing just for fun! I encourage any and all feedback, but at the end of the day this is just a hobby that I'm happy to be coming back to. I'll be playing fast and loose with canon, so watch out for the blasts. Without further ado:**

* * *

 **sanguine** / _adjective_ / :

1\. marked by eager hopefulness; confidently optimistic

(alternatively)

2\. consisting of or relating to blood

Hermione Granger was fucked.

Completely, utterly _fucked_.

They all were, really—stumbling down the paved path leading to the towering doors of Malfoy Manor, the so-called Golden Trio writhed helplessly against their bonds as they were marched to their certain death. Bound in a circle with their backs toward the center, Hermione winced every time their shared bindings pinched around the delicate skin of her wrists. She was blindly stepping backwards with every tug of the crude rope; somewhere at her back she could hear Harry panting with pain—no doubt in response to the Stinging Hex she had flung desperately at his face—and off to her right she could feel the rumble of Ron's voice as he muttered curses in angry terror. Panic was filling her skull with the ferocity of rushing water bursting from an exploded dam. The hunt for horcruxes was over. The war was won.

After everything—they _lost_.

The uncharacteristic chill of the evening seeped through her thin sweater. Numbly, she found herself grateful to be bound so tightly to her friends; if nothing else, their body heat was burning a comforting brand into her back and side. The Snatchers made a loose ring around the captives as they prodded them ever closer to entrance courtyard. Dean Thomas, another unfortunate casualty caught in their game of war, was tripping over his own feet as he side-stepped towards the looming Manor at wandpoint-insistence.

A man to Hermione's left just out of her line of sight laughed derisively at a magnificent albino peacock picking its way elegantly across the manicured lawn. "God, Lucius, what a ponce—peacocks, _really_?"

Ron paused in his mutterings and Hermione's breath caught—the lanky redhead was known for many things, but a discerning tongue wasn't one of them. "A ponce, you say?" Ron panted, a note of hysterical laughter rising in his rough voice. Hermione's hands scrambled uselessly against his sweat-slick arms in effort to quiet him. "Sounds like you and Lord Malfoy would make _excellent_ friends, Scabior, what with his pretty hair and your—"

The bound prisoners jolted to a sudden halt as Scabior pivoted on his heel and backhanded Ron clean across the face. Hermione gasped and stumbled, Harry clutching the back of her shirt in effort to keep her standing; she hadn't quite seen it, but she had felt his body jolt sickeningly in time with the sharp impact of flesh-on-flesh. To her right, Ron spat blood to cobbled stone and let out a stream of profanity that, in any other circumstance, would have made her blush. For precious heartbeats Hermione was transfixed on the crimson dots littering the pavement. Blood and blood and blood…something about _blood_ —

Hermione's fear was a dull throb in her chest where her heart used to be. She couldn't think. The sounds of Scabior's harsh words to Ron bled together with her rushing pulse and she couldn't hear. Here she was, brains of the bloody Golden Trio, and she couldn't even gather her thoughts long enough to process her surroundings. Her books failed her. Of all the dark tomes she had been pouring over in the last handful of months, there wasn't a single hex or curse that could magic them away from their doom. Even blood magic, she thought, transfixed on Ron's blood on the ground, couldn't give them the upper hand. There was nothing to do but endure this trial wandlessly.

There had been a time several years before when Hermione had wondered what the inside of Draco's ancestral home looked like. Malfoy never passed up an opportunity to remind his peers of his aristocratic status, so Hermione had imagined his home would reflect some sort of wasteful, lofty opulence. Now, as she was unceremoniously pushed through the grand entrance and herded into a decadent drawing room, she couldn't muster any curiosity for the dark wood paneling and tasteful fixtures dominating every corner of the house. If she had dared to look up she would have seen frescoes painted on the ceiling and a giant, curling chandelier that looked to be made from pure diamonds. Her fear wouldn't let her. Her feet scrambled against the polished floor to keep up with the Snatchers' bruising pace and the telltale stirrings of fight-or-flight wouldn't allow her to tear her eyes off of the dark-robed figures darting around the room. For all she cared, the grand home could have been a dark, dank hovel for the lingering evil it housed.

Voices were raised in surprise at their arrival. Hermione fought a wave of dizziness in the dim lighting and outstretched her clammy fingers behind her—somewhere, in the tangle of their bonds, Harry Potter clasped her hands in his. A second later Ron's fist settled tightly around theirs. They were captured, but at least together. If only their lie could hold for just a little bit longer, just long enough for her to _think_ —

The doors of the drawing room had drifted closed after their entrance, and again they banged open as Bellatrix Lestrange strode into the room.

"Scabior!" the dark woman snapped. Even after so many months, the dark witch's high tenor still struck a chord of mindless terror in Hermione; in a sense, Bellatrix was the second worst thing behind the Dark Lord himself. "You better have a _very_ good reason for interrupting my _family time_ , sweetling, and if you haven't—"

"I've brought you Harry Potter and his friends, I did!" Scabior interrupted, tugging on the rope for rough emphasis.

Greyback and the other Snatchers shifted uneasily around the captives. " _We_ brought you Potter," the werewolf corrected. In Hermione's line of vision the intimidating wolf winked at her with a lascivious leer. Hermione wanted to retch.

Bellatrix robbed of speech must not have been a common sight, for the entire drawing room seemed to come to a still at the Snatcher's proclamation. Positioned facing the wainscoting on the far wall as she was, Hermione couldn't make out the faces of the room's occupants. Just out of Hermione's field of vision Bellatrix's eyes lit with an insane fire and her full lips drew back in a wide, macabre smile. Her chest was heaving in the confines of her black corset, and if it weren't for the absurdity of the situation, Hermione would have conceded that Bellatrix Lestrange was, in fact, a gorgeous woman. "You brought me _what_ , dear? _Harry Potter_?"

A flick of the witch's wand severed the bonds holding the captives back-to-back; the Snatchers, aware of Bellatrix's intentions, manhandled the prisoners into facing the rest of the room. A wand pressed itself menacingly under Hermione's chin. Ron struggled against Greyback's broad chest. Harry stayed blessedly, blissfully silent.

Hermione chanced a look at Harry specifically. The Stinging Hex had swollen his lean features into something nearly unrecognizable, and if he kept his chin tucked as he did, his hair fell down to cover his scar. Hope, that damnably bright emotion that had no place with her rage and fear, bubbled sweetly upon seeing the sight. _Perhaps, just maybe, if no one recognizes..._

Scabior continued bragging uninterrupted from his post by the door, his hands planted victoriously on his hips as he recounted their capture and the lie Hermione had fed him—Vernon Dudley, Barny Weasley, and Penelope Clearwater were certainly not the trio in the drawing room, but if it somehow led to their unharmed release, Hermione was prepared to say anything. Scabior thought he had recognized Hermione from the WANTED posters pasted about Diagon Alley, so that must have meant the swollen-faced bespectacled boy with her was Undesirable Number One himself. Bellatrix was cheerfully informing the room that the Dark Lord would be _so_ very pleased, and he had to be summoned _right now_. Of course, the whole plan of pretending to be other teenagers would go up in flames if Draco Malfoy were to somehow walk into the room—

Another shriek from Bellatrix brought the room to a standstill and her rambling speech that had cut off Scabior ground to an abrupt halt. " _What is that_?" she snarled, lunging for one of the Snatchers. With a strong wrench she relieved the wizard of what he had been holding—the sword of Godric Gryffindor. " _We must wait_!" she continued, holding the sword before her as if transfixed by the blade. A cold tremble of fear made her voice shrill and a dart of pink tongue swiped across her bottom lip. Shoulders bunched to her chin, she hissed, "We cannot call the Dark Lord. If they got this where I think they did, we are all in grave danger."

The Snatchers began protesting in an indignant, discordant wave. _Didn't they realize how many galleons the Dark Lord had offered for Potter? Didn't Bellatrix understand that this was_ their _capture, and they should be rewarded? It wasn't fair—_

Hermione couldn't tear her eyes away from Bellatrix as she brandished the sword in an angry swipe. " _Fuck_ your galleons!" she screamed, her wild curls falling into her face as she lunged toward the bound captives. She sucked in a sharp breath and snapped to her full height, suddenly in control of her emotions as if she had flipped a switch. "Cissy?" Bellatrix crooned to her sister. Narcissa Malfoy, an elegant blonde statue standing rigid by the lit fireplace, turned for the first time since the Snatchers' arrival to face the room. "Go fetch my darling nephew for me—we need to know if these brats are _really_ Potter and company before all else."

If it had been physically possible, Hermione would have fallen to the floor in dread. Wistfully, she thought of her wand still in Scabior's grip. She knew her lie had been flimsy, but she just needed more _time_ —

The doors to the drawing room slid open once more as Narcissa glided silently from the room, and in exchange walked in the third worst thing in relation to Voldemort, in Hermione's opinion: Antonin Dolohov.

 _Wonderful_ , the terrified witch thought as she laid eyes on her one-time attacker. _Just bloody perfect_.

The man who had attacked Hermione Granger in the Department of Mysteries at the end of her fifth year was a far cry from the proud, broad man who now wore his face; whereas that Dolohov had been slight and curled from his time in Azkaban, this Dolohov held himself with a healthy authority that belied quiet power. Dark hair waved to his shoulders and his sharp jaw no longer sported the tangled, unkempt beard—when his eyes found hers, as if drawn by an audible call of his name, Hermione could see his teeth clench beneath a layer of pale flesh and dusty five o'clock shadow. Beneath her sweater Hermione felt the raised scar on her chest, a remnant of his silent purple curse, twinge with pain. She would never forget that face for as long as she lived...which, she considered, might not be much longer.

Bellatrix looked about as thrilled with his silent entrance as Hermione did. Already contorted into a sneer, Hermione watched as Bellatrix's face took on an even darker cast as the Russian Death Eater wordlessly approached her. "I wasn't aware you had joined us in the Manor, _Tony_ ," she hissed. The sickly-sweet drawl of her voice made Hermione shiver. Antonin simply hedged around the overstuffed armchairs with his back to the wall and ignored her.

Lucius Malfoy stepped into the drawing room behind the dark wizard and graciously inclined his head to Bellatrix. "He is our guest, Bella, just as you are." Behind him, Narcissa and a stricken Draco filed inside. They took their position by the fireplace and Lucius continued, never quite meeting the eyes of his crazed sister-in-law. "Cissa suggested you had a…task, for Draco."

As Bellatrix gleefully explained what she wanted Draco to do—and gods, her mood swings were _awful_ —Hermione examined the Malfoy family as a unit. In contrast to Dolohov who had unquestionably regained his strength from his lengthy incarceration, Lucius Malfoy looked to be a thin shell of a man. Hermione remembered him being fuller, more imposing; now he was as thin and pale as his son, who looked to be simply terrified under his mother's delicate grip on his shoulder. The young Malfoy hadn't even glanced at the prisoners yet, something Hermione found vaguely intriguing. _How much went on in his home did he truly know about?_ Narcissa, ever the totem of pureblood feminine grace, simply looked as if she wished to be anywhere else.

The minutes that followed were so tense that Hermione nearly forgot to breathe. Beside her, Harry and Ron stood rigid under Draco's reluctant scrutiny. Hermione deliberately caught his gaze and held it; if he was going to positively identify them to his deranged aunt, Hermione was going to make him look her in the eye as he did it. For all of his ranting about blood purity and power, the blond young man didn't look so sure of himself now. To his credit, she thought, he wasn't jumping at the chance to feed his classmates to the Dark Lord.

His wavering and Bellatrix's frustration was small comfort for Hermione. Even if Draco refused to confirm that they were, in fact, Harry Potter and friends, Antonin Dolohov certainly would. The dark wizard prowling the perimeters of the grand room had yet to take his eyes off of her, and if his constant attention was an indication…he remembered her. He remembered the bushy whip of her curls as she ran, the fire in her eyes as she hurled hex after hex, the startled expression on her face when he silently shot a ray of purple light from his wand directly at her chest—he remembered he should have killed her. Draco's denial of their identities meant little, she realized. Dolohov would be the one to deliver them to Voldemort, and most likely with a smile. Where Hermione Granger went, Harry Potter was also. There was no mistaking who they were now.

And that wasn't even taking the damned sword of Gryffindor into account.

An argument had broken out in the time that Hermione had held Dolohov's eyes. _Who was to take credit for their capture? When should they alert the Dark Lord? Draco, why don't you take a closer look? Where could they have gotten the sword? What about my galleons? Perhaps Greyback should take the girl, she'll make a nice little treat—_

"No."

Dolohov's voice cut through the others like butter, low and deadly, his accent curling over the simple syllable in a barely-there whisper.

Bellatrix rounded on him with her wand in her hand. "What did you say? _Of course_ I have to interrogate the brats—"

"That's not what I meant," he clarified. His expression, a stone wall and all hard, masculine lines, didn't shift. "Greyback will not touch the _pchelka_. Leave her here for interrogation. The others can keep the prisoners company in the dungeons, no?"

Bellatrix's smile was wolfish at the suggestion, her former disdain for Dolohov's presence gone. She clapped twice, whipping around to face the Snatchers. "Dog!" she addressed Greyback, who grimaced at her address, "Take our _gentlemen_ downstairs…make sure they play nice with Mr. Ollivander. The rest of you—out! Antonin thinks our _little bee_ needs to _buzz_ for us."

When the reality of the situation settled on the room, chaos erupted.

Hands pulled Harry and Ron away from Hermione—they spat and kicked and struggled and cursed, but ultimately, the strength of the leering werewolf wore them down. Hermione's friends were dragged from the room like a pair of quarreling kittens, trussed up like Christmas hams in their unyielding bonds.

The Snatchers roared in displeasure at the confiscation of their capture. Words like _mine_ and _ours_ and _reward_ were thrown like hexes over Hermione's head—hands jostled her as many fought for proprietary purchase. A fist connected with flesh somewhere off to her left, the start of a brawl. A flash of green light and Dean Thomas thumped dead to the floor. Unable to comprehend the sudden blur of violence, Hermione focused on Bellatrix as she advanced with gnashing teeth and a crazed gleam in her hooded eyes.

Hermione couldn't move.

Unbidden, Hermione's eyes caught Dolohov's once more. From across the room he looked like a dark angel framed by firelight—all long shadows and proud shoulders. Even without his wand in his palm he commanded a certain power that left her feeling sick. _Why wasn't he saying anything?_ she thought hysterically. _He could say who I am and end this, why me why this why now_ —

In the awful fog of her fear, Hermione didn't surface back to reality until the cold, clawed hands of Bellatrix Lestrange grappled painfully at her jaw. Her face was wrenched to face the terrifying woman, and for the first time since her capture Hermione felt a sense of terrible clarity. "Let the boys tire themselves out with their petty squabbles, dear," Bellatrix cooed, canting her face down to rest her forehead intimately on Hermione's. "You'll tell me where you got that sword after we've had our _girl time_."

Over Bellatrix's thin shoulder Antonin Dolohov raised a single hand with one spidery finger extended. Hermione watched, transfixed, as he pointed that finger towards himself and tapped his own chest just inches below his collarbone. Right where her scar from his curse was on her body. He smiled, a wicked curl of lips and teeth. He knew.

Bellatrix raised her wand and Hermione screamed.


	2. Chapter 2

His wards were singing.

Antonin Dolohov hated Malfoy Manor for several reasons, but even he couldn't deny that the elegant complex had a certain charm to it. He spent his days tucked into the vast library if he wasn't in the dungeons; his own ancestral home didn't house nearly as many volumes as this one, and if there was one thing he would have sold his soul for in Azkaban, it would have been a book to read. His _time on the North Sea_ , as he euphemistically referred to it, had been a particular brand of hell that wouldn't have been as bad if it hadn't been for the distinct boredom that characterized year after year. Even the most wretched wizard, he found, got used to the horrors of the Dementors over time. Regular meals and frequent exercise of his long-dormant magic had nearly restored him from the wasted husk of a wizard he had been during incarceration.

He had been standing among the stacks on the upper level, slim hip propped against a shelf with a book cradled on his forearm as he lazily flipped pages with flicks of his wand—the feeling started at the base of his spine and crept its way up. Magic, he found, had a particular physicality about it when you knew what to feel for. Simple itches and twitches and shivers were never just sensations to a fine-tuned cursebreaker.

He had instinctually dropped the book and pushed toward the staircase at the first brush of sensation; the wards he had cast around the Manor were calling to him. Though the gate at the edge of the property had been spelled to only allow entrance to the followers of the Dark Lord, the other barriers—his invisible, sinister brand—allowed him to sense when anyone came or left. He had been stationed at the Manor since the fall of the Ministry months prior, and never once in all those dull weeks did he sense as many people entering the grounds at once as he felt now. His duty, tasked by Voldemort, was to secure the Manor as Head of Operations for the Death Eaters.

It was as almost as boring as Azkaban, save for the books.

He stalked down the hallways until he came upon the drawing room just off the main entrance foyer. If he continued descending the grand, curling staircase into the lower levels he would find himself in the dungeons. It was almost a second nature to test the wards surrounding the cellar as he passed; true to form, they were holding strong. The steady thrum of magic that sluggishly trailed down his back let him feel the magical signatures of the prisoners—hungry and cold, but alive.

Narcissa Malfoy was exiting the drawing room as he shouldered his way in. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, and it was then, right as their gazes met blue to black, that it felt _it_.

Another of his wards, but _not quite_ , singing to him sweetly like a sprite in a spring.

Narcissa's small hand grasped lightly at his elbow as he passed. He had always liked Narcissa when they were in school; though the proud woman often kept her mouth closed and her expression guarded, he had seen glimpses of the sharp, stunningly strong woman beneath her pureblood armor. She had been extremely gracious to him since the Dark Lord's return—Lucius, her decidedly more hotheaded husband, had not. Some rivalries never died.

The drawing room held many more visitors than he could ever remember it having. Instantly alert, he catalogued the occupants of the seldom-used room, searching for the source of the familiar, latent magic that now called to him. He couldn't remember placing any additional wards on this room, and yet…

Bellatrix Lestrange was a mad pillar of energy in the center. Thorfinn Rowle, disinterested and drunk, lounged carelessly in an armchair by the windows. Snatchers in tattered clothing shifted restlessly around a clump of detainees. Four captured forms bound crudely in spelled rope clustered protectively together and watched him with undisguised mistrust.

Bellatrix was speaking. Lucius and Narcissa were reentering the room. Draco, the pale son, was slinking in quietly behind them. Rowle took a swig from his wine glass. Greyback clicked his deadly nails against the polished wood of an ostentatious sideboard.

Dolohov's eyes caught hers and he didn't pay attention to anything else.

The last time he had seen her she had been younger—her face fuller, her hair shorter, and slightly more substantial around the hips. Petite, pale, a wild bunch of tawny curls—there she was, the fiery little mystery from the Department of Mysteries.

 _So_ , he thought _. I didn't kill her after all_.

He paced around the edges of the room, separate from the commotion happening in the middle. He wanted to get a better look at her but he knew he couldn't draw any closer; any interest he had in the captives would be dismissed, surely, in the face of the greater scheme. Harry Potter and his friends—Ron Weasley and the girl—had finally been captured. From the looks of Potter's swollen face and the bickering as Draco failed to identify him, the hellish trio would soon be delivered to the Dark Lord and everyone else would be punished for not seeing directly through the flimsy deception. Talk of galleons and a sword flew over his head as he stared at the girl. Every few moments her dark eyes, shadowed under a worried brow, would flick anxiously to his.

If she had been anyone else he would have felt insulted. This slip of a girl—dirty, wandless, and clearly starving—had survived his spell where no others had before. If he hadn't seen her at her full glory, wonderfully angry and shooting hexes like a demon, it would have been an offense. He knew her, however. He knew her _fire._

His wand was securely in his sleeve, but he itched to let it fall into his hand. He could feel his own magical signature emanating from her chest where his spell had hit. His wards whispered sweetly. He wanted to finish what he started, his previous boredom dissipated into a new, sinister emotion. He wanted to be the one to kill her.

The arguing at the room's center was coming to a crashing crescendo, but one suggestion caused him to speak up. The possibility that the girl, his defeated little spitfire, would be given to the mangy werewolf as a _treat_ —

"No." He hadn't even meant to speak, but he was pleased when the voices halted in their mouths.

His suggestion that the girl be kept for interrogation about the sword was the only thing he could think of that would allow her to stay in that drawing room; every other possibility involved Bellatrix taking her somewhere else, somewhere private, and potentially stealing his promised kill from him. He couldn't allow the girl to be delivered to the Dark Lord—she wasn't the focus of his campaign and wouldn't be missed in the greater victory.

Dolohov felt drunk on the faint waves of magic calling him to the girl. Moments later, when her two companions were dragged to the cellar below the Manor and the other captive laid dead at Scabior's feet, the girl's eyes met his over the graceful arch of Bellatrix's shoulder. _Did she recognize me?_ he mused. He wanted her to. _Needed_ her to.

Deliberately, he tapped his chest with a single finger, right over where he knew the scar on her own chest would be. Her eyes were comically wide, a flush coloring high spots on her sunken cheeks. Oh, she knew. She remembered him.

He couldn't wait to see what that scar looked like.

* * *

Draco Malfoy felt sick.

Few times in his life had he felt this way—when he broke his arm falling off a toy broom when he was seven, when his father backhanded him the holiday break of his fourth year, that black night when the Dark Lord cursed the Mark onto his left forearm—but this, the awful torture of the mudblood, stood alone as the worst thing he had witnessed thus far. He had never felt more revolted and repelled than he did by the sight of Hermione Granger trapped beneath the caging form of his aunt, sobbing her heart out as a cursed knife carved an ugly slur into her arm. The mudblood's screams weren't new to his ears; just moments after Potter and Weasley were taken to the cellar, Bellatrix had warmed up her new toy with a few enthusiastic rounds of _Cruciatus_. Those cries had been of pain and fear, but this, _this_ —

When Bellatrix finished carving _mudblood_ into the girl's skinny arm, Granger cried like her heart was broken.

Draco was no stranger to death. He had seen men and women devoured whole by the Dark Lord's snake, watched as members of the Inner Circle killed as if it meant nothing, and had even been forced to participate in a Dark Revel on one hellishly memorable occasion; the halls of his childhood home were forever stained by the stench of dark magic. There was something about watching his former classmate and rival writhe pitifully on the drawing room rug—where he had taken his first steps, first learned to waltz, stole his first kiss from Pansy Parkinson—that made all other experiences pale in comparison. Not even the cooling corpse of Dean Thomas, levitated carelessly out of the room by a disgruntled Snatcher, came close to inspiring the fear and disgust Granger's torture did.

 _Stupid girl!_ his mind screamed. _Just tell Aunt Bella what she wants to hear!_

A furtive glance around the room showed that no one else was as openly horrified as he was. Rowle sipped from a glass as if he couldn't hear the mudblood scream. His mother stared resolutely into the fire, refusing to watch but otherwise unaffected. Antonin Dolohov was a quiet shadow who looked upon the spectacle as if he wanted to _devour_ their prisoner.

In effort to ignore Granger's torture, Draco focused on the agitated Russian wizard. He didn't know much about him—he was cruel, powerful, and responsible for the protective charms over the Manor—and he couldn't remember anything about him other than that his father wasn't fond of him. He had been quiet since his release from Azkaban and often infringed on Draco's sanctuary in the Manor's library. After a few heartbeats of examining the restless man, Draco wished he hadn't.

Dolohov looked _hungry_.

A great, pacing cat with his eyes on the mudblood, Dolohov resembled a panther ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. His eyes were fiendishly bright and his wand hand twitched every time Granger screamed—the dark wizard's appetite for violence was legendary, and seeing him now, Draco could believe every awful thing he'd ever heard about the man. Draco tore his attention back to the floor and swallowed back bile. Granger was bossy and swottish and worthless, yes, but she didn't deserve to be _stalked_ like this. She was already panting with agony and on the cusp of death—she didn't need Dolohov prowling after her as if he wanted to finish the job.

Draco Malfoy tried very hard not to notice the blood that was soaking into the expansive Persian rug. He tried very hard to tune out Granger's cries, Aunt Bella's questioning, and everything else about this horrible situation that he couldn't escape; he called on a comforting memory of his father and squared his shoulders, determined to outlast whatever stirring of regret that burned low in his gut.

Hermione Granger screamed and he thought of learning to fly.

* * *

The ordeal was over and Hermione couldn't breathe.

Her body was wracked with an unbelievable pain that came in shaking waves—even after the _Cruciatus_ was lifted, the agonizing tremors that followed the overstimulation of her nerves wouldn't allow her lay still on the plush rug. Bellatrix had been a blanket of mad, burning heat above her; cradling her body in the caricature of a careful lover, the dark witch had held her down and carved her arm with such enthusiasm Hermione almost forgot what the point of the "interrogation" had been in the first place. All she knew was that she could not, under any circumstance, tell Bellatrix what she wanted to know. They hadn't been in the Lestrange vault, true, but the sword was currently their only weapon against the horcruxes they had yet to find. The Basilisk venom impregnating the goblin-made blade secured it as an invaluable tool in the fight against Voldemort.

The flurry of anxious voices passing over her head went unnoticed as she tried and failed to catch her stuttering breath.

Even when Hermione closed her eyes she couldn't banish the sight of his.

Dolohov had watched her torture with something akin to yearning pulling at his features; he was a delighted coil of anxious energy creeping around the perimeter of the room, and when Bellatrix had lowered her blade to her arm his attention hadn't left her for a single second. If possible, Hermione was more afraid of him than she was of Bellatrix. Bellatrix was mad in an unpredictable way, a cat toying with a mouse. Dolohov, with his trembling hands and barely-repressed energy, was Death Himself looking to collect. Staring into the eyes of Antonin Dolohov was staring into the face of her own demise, and childishly she thought _, I don't want to die_.

Bellatrix rose to her feet and left Hermione on the floor. She couldn't move and could barely think—her instincts screamed for her to run and escape, but her muscles refused to comply. All she could manage was to roll herself onto her side as the voices above argued over her fate.

Phrases penetrated her mind's tortured fog. _Summon the Dark Lord_ and _bring me the others_ and _hide the sword_. None of them made sense to her, but the feeling of dread that had been compounding since arriving at the Manor got worse. Voldemort was coming, no more stalling. Any lingering hope that had been nestled protectively in her heart was dying with the inevitability of a setting sun.

When Harry and Ron apparated into the drawing room clasping at the spindly hands of the house elf Dobby, Hermione Granger couldn't even muster the energy needed to feel properly relieved.

* * *

Draco couldn't wash the feeling of her skin off his hands.

It was hours later—the debacle in the drawing room had finally reached its conclusion when Dobby, the freed, disloyal house elf who somehow became attached to _Potter_ —facilitated the escape of the prisoners. The small hours of the morning were approaching and Draco was bone-tired and sore from the curses the Dark Lord had subjected the lot of them to upon his arrival.

The Malfoys had failed once more and it was a small comfort that Hermione Granger hadn't managed to escape.

Draco stood in one of the many bathrooms scattered around the Manor, furiously scrubbing his hands raw in the scalding water flowing from the golden tap. He refused to look at his reflection—no doubt the broken nose and blackened eyes did him no favors—and had yet to repair his shredded cloak from where it hung about his hunched shoulders. The Dark Lord was strangely magnificent in his anger.

Antonin Dolohov had suffered the worst, Draco saw. Apparently the dark wizard hadn't considered that the magic of house elves could penetrate his wards. Draco was jealous that he couldn't weather the _Cruciatus_ as silently as Dolohov had. Aunt Bella, by contrast, had howled in nearly-orgasmic rapture every time the enraged Dark Lord had turned his wand to her; in pain or not, Bellatrix was infamous for her love for Lord Voldemort. Narcissa, the silver sister, had simply wept.

 _At least_ , Draco mused, _I didn't wet myself this time_.

He slammed off the tap with a painful bang of his wrist and leaned heavily on the marble counter. The soap and water wasn't working—he could still vividly remember the feel Granger's skin on his own. After the Dark Lord's arrival and subsequent torture he had been tasked with taking her to one of the empty bedrooms in the Manor to hold her until a decision about her capture could be made; Dolohov had trailed after him like a shadow and warded the room more securely than any Gringotts vault. Having learned from his mistake, Dolohov had made sure that no creature could go in—or out—without his express permission.

Hermione Granger had gripped his hands so tightly with her trembling fists that Draco worried his circulation would surely stop. Cold, clammy, and tacky with dried blood, she had held on to him like a lifeline as he walked her to her new prison in the upper reaches of the Manor. He didn't have the heart to wrench his hands away.

Draco pressed the heel of his palms to his eyes and squeezed until bursts of color exploded beneath his clenched lids. Her skin, the sound of her uneven breath—her memory wouldn't leave him. Other sights, like the one of her and Dolohov on the immaculate guest bed, would undoubtedly haunt his nightmares forever.

Once inside her gilded prison Dolohov had shouldered his way in with such authority that Draco didn't dare protest. He had been unaware the wizard had been following them initially, but after witnessing his rapt attention on the mudblood in the drawing room, Draco felt he should have expected this. Even weak from torture Dolohov still managed to hold himself with a regal rigidity that would have made Lucius jealous.

Granger hadn't made a sound when Dolohov had roughly pushed her back onto the bed and crowded her personal space; his knee had come up to rest on the bed beside her shaking thigh as he leant over her body. It was a sickening parallel to how Aunt Bella had crouched over the girl…but somehow this made him more afraid.

Draco couldn't move as Dolohov raised his hands to Granger's ratty sweater and ripped it clean down the middle from the worn collar—the girl had squeaked and batted uselessly at his hands, but under his superior strength she was helpless. Draco had heard of such things happening at Dark Revels, and he knew this was _war_ , but he didn't think Dolohov would sink to _this_ —

He hadn't undressed her any further.

The room had stilled after the rip was made, and Granger, a fearful statue on the emerald bedspread, was tensed in the silence waiting for Dolohov's next move. She expected him to touch her, to take her fully with Draco watching. Draco, sick with his own cowardice, couldn't move a single muscle as he watched. He couldn't breathe.

Dolohov was frozen above Granger with his hands planted firmly on either side of her trembling shoulders. He was staring at her chest with rapt fascination, the aftershocks of the Dark Lord's _Cruciatus_ wracking his spine. Draco tried not to look at his former classmate's pale skin or conservative bra or delicate collar bones beneath the ripped fabric—what held his attention most, however, had been the scar.

It was the size of his fist and mottled like a healing bruise—pale pink and raised, Draco recognized it as the aftermath of an extremely dark curse. It appeared to be rather old— _just when had the girl gotten such a mark?_ —and Dolohov was staring at it like a dying man would stare at a glass of water.

Hermione was heaving with terrified breath. Dolohov was murmuring unintelligible words in low Russian. Draco Malfoy felt violently ill.

After several moments the dark wizard had pushed himself off the girl and left the room. Draco had followed him out and jumped when the door slammed closed behind them, spelled against intrusion and possible escape attempts. Granger had been left on the bed, terrified and half-dressed. The relief Draco expected to feel never came.

In the bathroom somewhere on the Manor's first floor, Draco Malfoy sunk heavily to his knees and began to retch, desperately trying to dispel the memory of the mudblood and her soft skin from his scattered mind.

* * *

 **A/N: How is it so far? Thanks so much for luminastra for being my first reviewer! I'm tickled pink that this story has garnered some interest.**

 **Next up: Hermione plans her escape and Dolohov takes on a task for the Dark Lord.**


	3. Chapter 3

The panic had subsided, but only just.

Once her breath and wit had eased back to her she found herself in an unsurprising amount of pain; it seemed like hours had passed since her torture on the drawing room floor, but every muscle and joint throbbed uncomfortably as if only minutes had passed instead. Her arm— _don't look Hermione don't look_ —stung like white fire. The cuts had scabbed over and caught on the rough cotton of her sleeve if she moved the wrong way. She found herself unable to look at the ugly wound and chose instead to endure the scratch of her sleeve against the raw skin. _Branded just like cattle_ , she thought _. My blood was as red as any of theirs would have been_.

She had no way of telling time, but she would have guessed she had been alone in the room for three or four hours. The house was silent around her and no sounds from the hall filtered in through the heavy door—no doubt warded by Dolohov's skilled hand. Now free of the rope the Snatcher's had wrapped her with she could move freely, but only to discover the room had no possible means for her to escape. The chest of drawers on the far wall refused to open, the mirror on the vanity refused to break, and any objects on the far mantle wouldn't lift if touched by her hand. The fireplace was merrily crackling with flame, but even self-harm was impossible; the flames were repelled by her touch if she tried to reach for them. No floo powder, no windows, no closet. Her cage may have been prettily decorated and incredibly comfortable, but it was just that: a _cage_.

More than once she found herself standing in front of the mirror. Months on the run hadn't been kind to her, and for a moment, she was thankful she had never been the kind of witch to put too much stock in her appearance—her face was thin and hard, her limbs skinny and pale, her frame emaciated from lack of proper nutrition. Her long tangle of brown hair was thinner, if not more messy in its wilted braid. Her eyes were blank and dark. Her sweater, once a pale pink and lovingly knitted by Mrs. Weasley as a Christmas gift, now hung in tatters around her thin shoulders, ripped clean down the middle by Dolohov's hand.

The memory of his hands on her skin terrified her.

She had considered herself lucky, at first, to have avoided being brought before Voldemort upon his arrival—they had once more bound her tight in the drawing room and simply left her on the floor under a variety of wicked charms that would burn her if she tried to move. Once everyone left she heard nothing; wherever Lord Voldemort was meeting with his Death Eaters must have been far, because not a single sound filtered down to where she was held captive. When Draco Malfoy had limped into the room some time later—shaking, clothes in ruin, sporting two black eyes and a broken nose—the shock she felt at his appearance had been enough to make her momentarily forget her own discomfort. _Good god_ , she had thought, pity drawing at the corners of her mouth and making her heart ache. _What has he done to you?_

She had been clung desperately to her former classmate (halfway by necessity, seeing the shakiness of her legs) as he helped her up a flight of stairs and to a far residential wing of the Manor. She didn't dare run and try to escape from him despite her lack of bonds—she was weak and in pain, and Antonin Dolohov would surely catch her if she tried.

She refused to acknowledge the looming man as he stalked along after them, but she could feel his eyes on the back of her neck as surely as if it had been a physical touch. Whatever it was that she had feared in that drawing room was moments away from happening, she thought, and she was very nearly too tired to care. The only thing that gave her the strength to put one foot in front of the other was the knowledge that Harry and Ron had managed to escape. The war wasn't over, and they hadn't lost— _yet_.

She had accepted herself as a casualty, but at least it wasn't Harry. Harry still had so much fight left to give and an entire Wizarding World to save.

The room Draco deposited her in would have made quite a cozy guest room if it weren't for the shrunken size and lack of windows, she initially thought, and the Slytherin color scheme had been a bit predictable—

—but scrutiny came to a halt when Dolohov's hands wrapped around her waist.

She had been a fool to think that he wouldn't pounce on her the moment he was able. The fact that Draco was still there and the door was open didn't even have time to register with her; all she could feel, all she could think about, was the all-consuming terror that pounded like a pulse when the Dolohov pushed her back onto the bed and climbed right on top of her. Her aching limbs had scrambled against his to push him off and her throat burned when she attempted to yell out—he was too big, too close, too warm, too real. Her petty nightmares following the incident in the Department of Mysteries was no match for the real thing this close, hard and masculine against her weaker form.

He was a cloud blotting out the sun, in that moment, his strong hands coming to the front of her sweater and tearing it down the middle as if she was a present he couldn't wait to unwrap. Her eyes had widened comically in horror as she belatedly registered his intention to undress her—she knew the things big, bad Death Eaters did to pretty little mudbloods like her. She had heard rumors, had suspicions, but never had she considered it might happen to _her_ —

She was gasping for breath and shaking when he stilled over her prone form. Her hands had clutched desperately at his biceps in effort to push him away; he was solid under her palms and the material of his dress shirt bunched silkily between her dirty fingers. Every muscle felt tight with anger. How dare he? How _dare_ he?

It was a small blessing he didn't move to undress her further. Hermione struggled to choke back her angry indignation and chanced a look into his eyes—she was stunned at the burning she saw there. He wasn't looking at her face, but at the scar.

Clarity was a bitter pill to swallow.

Antonin Dolohov stared at the scar on her chest with a peculiar, dark reverence—there was a flash of pleasure, of want, of _recognition_. His hands were anchored heavily on the bed beside her shoulders and she fought the urge to blush and squirm. Though his position mirrored the one Bellatrix had taken over her in the drawing room, there was a frightening vein of intimacy that colored this show of power that hadn't been present in her previous torture. Dolohov was looking at her scar like a man possessed, like a man who didn't know how to keep his hands to himself.

— _weeks before, in the tent, alone while Harry was out setting the wards around their campground, Ron had eased her onto her back on his small cot, his mouth dragging in wet kisses up the side of her neck as he settled between her thighs—_

Everything about this position, with _him_ , felt too warm and dangerous and familiar. His dark eyes, so brown they appeared black, were fathomless. His mouth opened in rapture and he swallowed hard. That hair, falling in his face in ebony waves, caught at his moist lips and made him look debauched. Hermione felt a stab of self-loathing at her visceral reaction to the predatory wizard hovering over her quivering body like a snake waiting to strike and cursed herself for the momentary fantasy of her as _prey_.

Once he was done taking his fill of her scar— _his_ scar—he pushed off the bed, and off her, and exited the room with such quick economy of movement it was nearly supernatural. The room was much too cold without his body heat searing into hers.

Poor Draco, pale and petrified by the door, had scurried after him with an expression of such fear Hermione wondered if it rivaled her own.

The reflection of the girl in the mirror looked a little lost and violated, Hermione decided. She shuddered with disgust at the explicit direction her thoughts took and instead turned to face the room, eager to brainstorm a plan of escape. _They can't keep me in here forever_ , she thought desperately. Every emotion her fear had tamped down since her capture was roaring for her attention, now. Anger curled her fists. Pride clenched her jaw. Hope bloomed like an unwelcome weed in her cold heart.

She sank onto the bed (collapsed, really) and contemplated her next move. Harry and Ron had left with Dobby—with Griphook and the sword, too—so they were safe for the moment. No doubt they would somehow get word back to the Order that she had been captured and was being held at Malfoy Manor. Worst case scenario, she decided, was that she would have to bide her time amongst the snakes until a rescue party came to save her.

( _worst case scenario, you stupid girl, is if Dolohov comes back with his burning eyes and rough hands and decides to—)_

If Voldemort was still in the Manor somewhere she would most likely be brought before him at some point. It made sense, from a leadership perspective, for him to confer ( _punish_ ) his followers first before making any tactical moves. He would allow his Death Eaters time to regroup ( _wouldn't he?_ ) and then he would demand she be brought to her knees in his presence. _Tom Riddle was an accomplished Legimens, but I am a damn fine Occlumens_ , she decided. If Severus Snape could hide his thoughts from the most feared wizard of all time, then why couldn't she, brightest witch of her age? She had to forcibly shove aside the pang in her heart she felt at thinking of her former professor; now that he was revealed to be firmly in the league with the Dark, there could be no time to fondly reminisce on what had been her favorite instructor at Hogwarts.

She pushed off the bed on unsteady legs and began to pace the length of the small room as she thought, her hands wringing anxiously as she considered the possibilities.

She would be tortured for information, that much was clear. The scene with Bellatrix had merely been a taste, she knew; it would be important for her to fortify her occlumency shields _now_ if she wished to stand a chance against the next interrogation. Would Voldemort do it himself? Would Bellatrix? Would Dolohov?

The thought of Dolohov being in charge of extracting sensitive information from her— _by any means possible_ —terrified her more than the possibility of going before Voldemort. The Russian wizard was unhinged in a way that not even Bellatrix could compete with. Her hands tugged protectively at the torn ends of her sweater as she unwillingly remembered the hunger on his face.

 _Focus, Hermione_ , she chided herself. _You need a plan. Occlumency shields first, there you go_.

It took longer than usual for Hermione to clear her mind. She sunk back down on the green bedspread and allowed her hands to fall to her lap with a forced sigh. Eyes closed, she began the process of setting up her mental shields that she had perfected back in the tent. With a rough voice and renewed sense of determination, she began reciting every dark, awful curse she knew, verbally giving weight to what she wanted to do to every Death Eater lurking in the halls of the grand Manor.

* * *

" _Confringo. Expulso. Sectumsempra. Ulcere sanguis. Amputabo_ —"

His girl had pluck.

Dolohov lurked outside the warded bedroom with his forehead pressed against the wooden door, one of his palms resting lightly on the brass knob. He had been in the process of lifting the wards on her door barring entry when he first heard her voice—high and feminine—reciting curses. He couldn't stand to interrupt her without soaking in the decadence of this _exercise_ of hers. Some of the curses were common and some were unimaginably dark, no doubt lifted from a book she shouldn't have had her hands on in the first place. He wondered where she had learned them and decided he didn't care. His _pchelka_ , his spitfire, so angry and bright. Reciting her curses like a hymn and envisioning such violence.

It made him so achingly _hard_ to hear her.

Antonin knew he had a reputation for viciousness, but few truly got to see just how deep his depravity ran. It was nearly obscene that such an innocent slip of a girl brought out these awful feelings in him; if it weren't for her scar calling so sweetly to his magic he would have been tempted to keep her around indefinitely just to toy with her. What a fun, soft, _angry_ little toy she would make. Such resolve, such life. It was almost a pity he intended to kill her.

 _Not just yet_ , he reprimanded himself. _The Dark Lord's orders come first_.

When his Lord had summoned him for a second time into one of the Manor's many parlors—this one Narcissa's favorite, if the view of the back gardens was any indication—he had arrived with something akin to regret cooling in his heart. He had no intention of being killed before he took the life of the girl, and he knew his failure to ward the cellar properly was a capital offense. The Dark Lord had not been merciful in his punishments upon his arrival, and when Dolohov sunk reverently to his knees before his Lord for the second time, his body had still been shaking uncontrollably from the battery of curses he had been forced to endure. How fortuitous, he decided, that pain could be pleasurable when applied properly. He had approached Lord Voldemort expecting death if not another round of painful torment at the dark wizard's wand.

Jerking himself into the present, Dolohov focused on the sweet sound of his _pchelka's_ voice beyond the door and forced himself to forget his humiliating failure with the cellar's wards. He hadn't warded against the magic of house elves because Malfoy Manor no longer had any in employ; when the Dark Lord had named the Manor as base of operations all elves had been given clothes to appease his Lord's intense paranoia of betrayal. It was unfathomable to think a free elf—a former elf of the Manor, if Lucius was to be believed—would have returned in order to help prisoners escape. Though he was a firm favorite in the Inner Circle Dolohov knew his station would be extremely precarious if he failed with his next task.

Lord Voldemort had granted Dolohov to rise to his feet, and in the dawn of the early morning he gave the Russian wizard the sweetest gift he could have been given—he was to extract memories and useful information from the girl, and once her mind was a hollow shell with nothing useful left to give, he could kill her however he pleased.

Dolohov's fingers clenched painfully over the door's knob as he considered how auspicious this situation was for him. Severus Snape, the Dark Lord's preferred interrogator, was busy attending to matters at Hogwarts Castle and could not be reached at this time. Alecto Carrow, twin of Amycus and second-best Legimens in the Inner Circle, was away in Italy attempting to forge connections with the Ministry there. Third in line for such a task and least accomplished Legimens, he was instructed to break the girl until she was willing to physically transfer her memories into a small potions flask—a crafty bit of magic, but nothing he was unfamiliar with. It was as if the heavens themselves had blessed Dolohov…he, and he alone, would get to bring about the fiery girl's ultimate end. The Dark Lord was unwilling to attend to the task himself, believing it to be beneath him. Dolohov agreed. _Enthusiastically_.

The girl continued her recitations as he eagerly opened the door.

* * *

If Draco's childhood memories could be trusted, he knew better than to seek out his mother for comfort so soon after their torture by the Dark Lord's wand. Narcissa and Lucius were many things to wizarding society and to Draco as a parent, but first and foremost, they were _husband and wife_. Draco had walked in on them too many times to know that their preferred method of "seeking comfort" tended to involve a hell of a lot more nudity and physical contact than Draco was comfortable seeing. Content that his parents were taking their comfort elsewhere, Draco returned to the drawing room with the hope of coming across someone he could trust.

His nose had stopped bleeding but his vision was slightly blurry—his _episkey_ was shit, so it was imperative he found a more competent wizard to set his face to rights. The library, the kitchens, and the dining hall had been empty. He didn't dare enter any of the parlors; the Dark Lord might still be lurking somewhere in the Manor, and Draco had no desire to get heaping seconds of his prior punishment.

Thorfinn Rowle had returned to the drawing room, as luck would have it. The man was six years older than Draco, a head taller, and twice as broad—a common comparison made about the youngest Rowle was that he resembled descriptions of the God of Thunder he was named for. Golden blond to Draco's silver, Thorfinn was an approximation of the older brother Draco never had. Well, _almost._

Still half-drunk and just as sore as Draco, Thorfinn cast an easy smile at the youngest Malfoy as he hesitantly approached. A low whistle escaped Thorinn's full mouth as he took in Draco's smashed face. "He got you good, didn't he?" Thorfinn laughed. The glass of wine— _just how much did this brute drink?_ —in his hand bobbed as he considered him. "Come here. I know damn well you can't fix that mess by yourself."

Malfoy surrendered his weight into the armchair opposite and favored Thorfinn with a pained sneer. "Piss off," he spat. All the same, he leaned forward and positioned his face next to the older man's pointed wand.

A spell, a yank, and a yelp later—with a string of profanity blue enough to rival entire oceans—Draco's nose was back to normal and the bruising around his eyes was fading into their usual sleepless purple. Thorfinn slipped his wand back inside his sleeve and considered his friend over the rim of his glass. "You were in Granger's year at Hogwarts, weren't you?" he asked quietly.

Draco rubbed at his face and cast a dark look at the dying fire beneath the mantle. It did little to dispel the awful chill permeating the dark room. "Last name basis, huh? Know the bint personally?"

Thorfinn's answering smile was borderline perverse. "How personal are we talking here?"

Draco ignored his jibe and answered honestly. "Yes, we were in the same year. We weren't friends, if that's what you're asking."

"I wouldn't have expected you to be, what with her being a mudblood Gryffindor and all that. You just looked a little…troubled. Earlier, I mean."

Draco balled his hands onto fists on the arms of his chair and looked anywhere everywhere but Thorfinn's kind eyes. He settled his gaze on the molded ceiling as he responded. "I kissed Pansy on that rug when we were twelve," he blurted. He didn't dare check behind him to see if Granger's blood had been cleaned off of it. His face stained crimson when he realized his mistake.

Thorfinn leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, reaching for Draco with his pale blue gaze with more compassion than the young Malfoy felt he deserved. "It's not your fault, kid. There's nothing you could have done."

"It's not like I wanted to do anything," Draco hissed defensively. "I just…"

"You just regret who your parents are and what they made you do, I get it."

A tense silence enveloped the pair and Draco snapped his eyes back down to Thorfinn's. There was something dangerous about the direction the conversation was taking. The walls had eyes—literally, if the portraits were counted—and neither man could afford a misstep in what they said next.

"I am proud to serve as a Death Eater for the Dark Lord, Thorfinn."

"So am I."

"I am thankful my father was able to secure this opportunity for me."

"How quaint."

Another silence, this one stretching a heartbeat. Thorfinn leaned ever closer, his long blond hair falling over his shoulder to brush at his knee when he took Draco's hands in his own. His wine glass, half-full and discarded, was balanced on the armrest behind him. "This isn't what I signed up for, either," he older man breathed. His confession was a weight slipping off Draco's shoulders. The portraits couldn't hear if they spoke low.

"You didn't see him with her, Finn," Draco confided, his eyes glassy as he remembered the look on Antonin Dolohov's face as he stared down a helpless and undressed Hermione Granger. "She's terrified of him. He's obsessed with her, it's sick—"

Thorfinn nodded as if he knew. Draco didn't even have to mention a name. "That's what Antonin does, Draco. He's always been brilliant and obsessive, it's what made him the Dark Lord's favorite during the last war. A dog with a damn bone. Don't try to convince yourself you can take the bone away from him."

Draco wrenched his hands back in disgust. "I'm not suggesting I play _savior_ to the mudblood or anything foolish—"

"Keep your voice down!"

"—and she gets whatever she deserves from that maniac!"

"Draco!"

Draco rubbed his hands over his face and tried to calm himself. He was still shaking, still sore, still horrified. He knew his words were unfair. He stood quickly and stole Thorfinn's wineglass, tossing back the remaining liquid in a single, desperate gulp. "Look, Finn, thanks for fixing my face. I better get some sleep before I head back to Hogwarts in the morning."

Thorfinn considered Draco with something akin to pity as he accepted the empty glass from his proffered hand. "I wasn't aware you were back at Hogwarts for your seventh year," he said carefully.

"It's a nightmare," Draco confided. "Snape is Headmaster and the school doesn't feel anything like it used to. I get called back to the Manor frequently…every time the Dark Lord calls a summons or Aunt Bella wants to refresh my occlumency lessons. I'm only back this time because of her."

The face Thorfinn pulled made Draco smile. "The witch is as mad as a hatter, Draco. Amazing how she kept her looks after all that time in Azkaban." Something lascivious curled at the corners of Thorfinn's mouth as he leaned in closer. "I'd still hit it, to be completely honest."

"Dear god," Draco muttered, pulling away as Thorfinn leaned in laughter. "Do you have any idea how much I'll have to drink to get that image out of my head?"

"Oh, you're welcome, Draco! Just a little something to keep you _warm_ when Pansy won't let you slip into the girls' dormitory at night."

Draco left the drawing room some time later feeling better than he entered it, but he couldn't stop his thoughts from straying to Hermione Granger, some floors above and awaiting her fate. The thought of his Aunt Bella and Thorfinn didn't cross his mind once.

* * *

 **A/N: I'm not quite sure where I got the idea that Thorfinn Rowle would see Draco Malfoy as an obnoxious little brother, but here it is regardless. Also: some of the curses Dolohov heard Hermione recite are from the books and a couple are just ones I made up with the help of a translator and some imagination. Next up: Dolohov confronts Hermione. I always appreciate feedback, and thank you so much to everyone that's encouraged me through follows and favorites!**

 **I intend to take a few days off to get the next few chapters written. I think, if this becomes habit, most updates will occur in bursts of two or three.**


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione was more likely to run out of breath before she ran out of curses to recite. With each incantation she felt her mind fortify itself ever stronger into an impenetrable vault; her memories became encased in bubbles of steel and her emotions, a veritable wildfire of anxiety and anger and fear, cooled to something more manageable with each passing second. She envisioned the magical blue flames she used to conjure at Hogwarts and keep in jars for handy warmth—before she had been taught proper warming charms it was her favorite way to stay cozy when Harry and Ron dragged her down to the frigid Quidditch pitch. She used that image—of blue flame in a jar—and modeled her emotions after it. The feelings were there, but they were controlled under a layer of glass. Her own voice faded into the background as she settled into her mental fortress.

" _Auferat cutas. Mutilado_ —"

The door opened quickly and Hermione's eyes opened immediately at the sound. Without missing a beat, she looked Antonin Dolohov straight in the eye and finished, "— _Avada Kedavra_."

There was a strange power to saying the words to the killing curse, she decided. She had never actually spoken the incantation out loud before, and a curious feeling of hot lightning raced down her spine as her tongue curved wickedly over the phrase. She didn't have a name for the feeling it gave her, so Dolohov christened it.

"Can you feel it, _pchelka_?" he asked quietly, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. He stood less than a meter from the bed, his hands deceptively loose by his sides as he considered her. "Can you feel the irresistible caress of dark magic when you speak such an unforgivable incantation?"

She swallowed past a guilty lump in her throat as she considered his words. It was foolish of her to provoke him in such a manner, but at the time it was the only thing she could think to do to cover her embarrassment at getting caught doing her verbal mental exercise. "I would never dabble with such dark magic," she replied weakly. Seconds ago she had felt so calm and sure. Now she felt unbalanced.

"Wouldn't you?" he asked. His eyes flicked down and took in the pitiful state of her sweater. Hermione tried not to notice how his tongue darted out as he took her in. "I'm sure a passionate little fighter like yourself would relish casting such curses in the right circumstance." His voice was low and deceptively soothing as he crept closer to the bed, his hands ducking into his robes to remove an empty potions flask from one of the inner pockets. "I remember you, _solnyshko_. The Department of Mysteries, no?"

Hermione tried not to let the panic show on her face as it crept back to the surface. Talking about the Department of Mysteries—and subsequently the scar he left—seemed to be dangerous territory for the Death Eater. Hermione had no wish to repeat his earlier performance. "Even then I didn't cast a single spell against you which could be considered even the least little bit _dark_."

He settled the empty flask on the bare nightstand and stood directly in front of her, his thighs inches from her bent knees. That hunger was dawning on his face again and Hermione fought the urge to scramble back on the bed away from him. His wand wasn't in his hand yet, but for the venom in his voice it might as well have been. "And yet here you sit, in a Manor crawling with dark wizards speaking curses as if you belong among them." One hand reached for a tendril of hair that escaped her braid and he wound a finger around the curl. Hermione didn't dare move. "You know what I'm here to do. You're too bright not to."

"You're here to kill me."

The expression on his face went feral. "Not yet. But soon." His hand strayed from her curl and slid boldly over her chest, his callused palm directly over the scar between her breasts. "Do you know what this is?"

The utter absurdity of the situation surprised her—a sharp bark of laughter bubbled from her lips before she could reign it in. "Besides molestation, you mean?" She hated the high note of hysteria in her voice. She had expected to be tortured, to be questioned…but not bantered with. Not touched so softly as if too much pressure on her skin would cause her to break.

Dolohov's hand was around her throat and squeezing before she had time to jerk away. Her hands clawed at his and she struggled to breathe—he reacted by jerking her forward so that they were nose to nose. "I am no rapist. Do you understand?"

Hermione nodded, as emphatically as she could, her face turning an alarming shade of purple as she hastened to agree. When he let go, she gasped for breath but didn't otherwise dare move away from him. "Not a rapist, no," he murmured, gently petting her unkempt hair as if she were a startled pet. "I'm much worse than that."

The fear from earlier was back and more insistent than ever. Their banter was coming to an end, she knew, and soon he would begin hurting her for information about her friends. If Voldemort had allowed him to come back to her he must have done something to convince the dark wizard about his efficacy as an interrogator. "What are you going to do to me?" she croaked, coughing at the roughness at the back of her throat.

His eyes were dark pools as they bored into hers. "I'll only kill you if you give me what I want. If you misbehave I might have to play with you until you share nicely." He gestured with one hand towards the empty flask, forgotten on the nightstand to her left. "I am going to extract memories of Harry Potter from you and store them in this flask until the Dark Lord asks to see them. You have no use to our cause beyond what you already know about Potter and the Order of the Phoenix."

Hearing him state her worth—or lack thereof—so plainly cut like a knife. A cursed one. The carving on her arm throbbed painfully as she was reminded of her place. "That isn't going to happen, Dolohov."

His nostrils flared and his hand was around her slender neck once more, not squeezing, merely cradling in his grasp. "Say it again," he demanded.

Her brows knit together. "I don't—"

"My name," he hissed. He stepped closer, one of his thighs parting her knees where they hung off the edge of the bed. "My _given_ name. Say it again, _pchelka_. Now."

"An-Antonin," she stuttered. "…Antonin."

He smiled, slowly, horribly. He leaned forward until his forehead pressed against hers, and for one sick moment she was forcibly reminded of how Bellatrix began her torture in the drawing room all those hours before. " _Antonin_ ," he corrected, his voice curling around the Russian inflection effortlessly. "Learn to pronounce it fast. When I start playing with you, I want to hear you beg my name for mercy when you're ready to talk."

* * *

The passage of time was meaningless.

They could have been in that room for minutes, hours, or several sunlit days. Hermione wasn't sure how long it had been since Dolohov— _Antonin_ —raised his wand to her and began his interrogation. For all of her previous fears about him touching her, he didn't dare brush a single finger against her skin when he began his work. Her sweater hung open and she couldn't even feel the chill of the Manor anymore.

Pain felt so very curiously like fire when you've endured enough of it.

Then it was just cold.

* * *

At first, he did exactly as she expected him to do. His wand had pointed square at her forehead, and in a gruff tone he had hissed, " _Legimens_."

Hermione was fairly certain she had been subjected to the powerful mind-reading spell before, if not at the direction of her surly potions master, then at the gaze of her twinkling late headmaster. Professor Snape had a curious manner about him that suggested he knew exactly what his students were thinking at any given time; he caught potions mishaps seconds before they happened, could sniff out pranks like a bloodhound, and was often characterized by his unnerving penchant for prolonged eye contact. His eyes had been even darker than Dolohov's, the irises so midnight they bled into the inky black of his pupils.

Albus Dumbledore was of an entirely different breed. With his light countenance, pale eyes, and slightly dotty manner he had been able to lull students into a sense of security…Hermione was nearly sure he had dipped inside her mind once or twice, but she had never felt anything concrete to give credence to the suspicion.

She had been foolish to assume that all Legimens were so subtle.

Dolohov was a sharp, invading force in her mind and it _hurt_. He was everywhere all at once. Her vision blanked as she watched her memories rip through her conscious at dizzying speed, her tender capillaries all but bursting under the pressure he applied. Unused to such direct mental invasion, it took precious seconds for her to lock down her thoughts and push him out with her practiced occlumency shields. Once her mental barriers were protecting her thoughts his presence in her mind hurt even worse. There was an unbearable pressure battering against the inside of her skull. Her sinuses felt uncomfortably full. Blood rushed to her feet and she risked passing out under the Death Eater's unforgiving onslaught.

He had wrenched himself from her mind with a roar, unable to penetrate her shields. Blood dripped from her nose. The sight of Dolohov panting aggressively in front of her swam in triplicate as the room tilted on its axis. "Some cursebreaker you are," she had taunted, her voice sounding too faint and far away to be her own. "Mental shields are just wards, aren't they?"

His answer came as a whisper—" _Crucio_."

* * *

It occurred to her that he must not have been a very good Legimens if he wasn't able to access her thoughts. She was intelligent and determined, yes, but her abilities in this area had never been tested this way. Everything she wanted to keep hidden, from Harry's intentions to destroy Voldemort's horcruxes to the location of Order member's homes, stayed hidden.

She very soon found out just how it felt to have those dark curses she had been reciting enacted. He stroked their phrases with his tongue like a lover and watched her agony. Then he would heal her. Penetrate her mind. Ask for her compliance. Punish her for her refusal. Cast again.

She wasn't even consciously holding her mental shields anymore. They were just there, like her eyes or tongue or ears, just another sensory feature that she didn't have to be aware of to work effectively. Her knowledge of human anatomy from her time in Muggle grade school came to her as she suffered…what areas of the brain were her mental shields at? What regions did her magic target? Her thalamus? Hippocampus? Frontal lobe?

Her blood wasn't any muddier than that of a Pureblood, she decided. She bled bright, oxygenated crimson from her arteries and darker black from her veins. No mud here. It stained the lush carpet just the same.

* * *

Dolohov was _done_.

He was tired of this game they were playing—she refused to break no matter what curses he threw at her, and the alluring scar on her chest was tugging at his magic with more insistency than ever before. He ached to fulfill his promise to kill her. He had to. He wanted to appease his spell more than he wanted his next breath.

 _My fierce little Gryffindor_ , he thought fondly as she writhed on the ground at his feet, a thousand cuts slashing wickedly across her skin before healing and ripping again. _Looks so pretty covered in red_.

He was tired of playing with her. He weighed the consequence of fulfilling his obsession against his own death at the Dark Lord's hand; would it truly be sweeter than his own life to kill her before he extracted her memories? What if he took too long and his Lord decided to gift his little treat to Snape?

He cancelled the slicing curse and allowed her to catch her breath. When he crouched down beside her, his forearms balanced on his knees as he watched her, she spat in the general direction of his face. He didn't flinch. It landed on his hand and he didn't move. "Are you ready to say my name?"

She coughed up a clot of blood and jerked away from him with great effort. "Go to hell."

He fingered his wand contemplatively. "Only if you go with me."

* * *

Blood. Blood. So much of it—between her fingers, in her mouth, drenching every stitch of clothing that managed to survive his curses. She couldn't remember how many liters a human body held at one time. It seemed like the looming Death Eater was attempting to bleed her dry.

The room stunk cloyingly of sulfur. She could remember Professor Snape saying something about the smell of dark magic in a Defense Against the Dark Arts lecture her sixth year; when too many were cast at once in an unventilated space the residual magic, tainted with dark intent, had the tendency to smell like hellfire. Hermione gagged and spat hair from her mouth. Her hair had been in a braid, but now it was completely undone and sticking to the back of her neck with pouring sweat.

 _I wonder what it feels like to cast those curses_ , Hermione mused lightly. Dolohov was giving her a reprieve from his questioning. Most of her body was numb and habituated from the torture. She couldn't move her legs— _spinal damage?_ She stopped feeling the cold of the room a long time ago. Death, no, _Dolohov_ , hovered over her like a mad angel, his back to the dying fireplace as he considered her.

He tapped the tip of his wand against her chest, right over the scar. Her skin tingled with the touch as if recognizing the caster that inflicted the wound. "I have used many curses on you tonight. Do you know what this one is supposed to do?"

She shook her head weakly. Blood pooled in her mouth.

His face became a mask of hate, his lips pulling back in a feral snarl. "It isn't _just_ a curse, _pchelka_. It's a ward. It marks your death as mine and mine alone. Every killing curse you've managed to miraculously dodge in the months since our first encounter wasn't by luck alone. Others may have your pain, but only I will have your death. A spell of my own creation. A blood curse. A ward."

Hermione nodded along like she understood him. His voice was very smooth and low and far away—was he moving? Was that his hand on her chest?

 _I wonder what he looks like covered in blood like this_.

He leaned close, so close she thought he might try to kiss her. His eyes were insane coals of black. His teeth couldn't possibly be that sharp…

A curl of humor lit a smile on her face and she braced her head against the rug. A sharp jerk and a painful crash—

—with the last bit of physical strength she possessed she head-butted him right in the mouth.

He pushed away from her with a yell and dropped his wand, both hands coming to his face to quell the blood pouring from his gums and split lip. Hermione watched in a daze as he tested his teeth and licked at the thick drip that ran rivulets down his scruffy chin. His wand was on the floor next to her hand if she could only muster the strength to grasp it—

There was one incantation Hermione Granger had forgotten in her recitations. It had been squirreled away in the book about Horcruxes in her beaded bag that Ron now had; it was impractical in most wand-fights seeing as both opponents had to be touching, blood to blood, for it to work. It wasn't just a curse. It was a ward, an ancient one. Witches in conquered villages used to use it to protect themselves from pillaging, invading wizards—

Dolohov smiled at her through his blood and laughed at her tenacity, red droplets sputtering from his lips and landing on her neck. Hermione grasped his wand and channeled the tattered ends of what was left of her stamina. She cleared her throat. Dolohov looked at her expectantly, ready to hear his given name on her lips.

Knowing this was her last hope to get out of this alive, she closed her eyes, found her magic, and _cast_.

* * *

 **A/N: We're getting to the meat of the story. Next up: The shit hits the fan and our ill-matched pair discover they're in waaaaaay over their heads.**


	5. Chapter 5

The owl arrived around noon.

Severus Snape didn't take meals in the Great Hall anymore and hadn't since he murdered Dumbledore—Minerva looked at him with such heavy disappointment her stare felt like a physical weight, and the students, much more subdued now that Voldemort was in control of Hogwarts, would tense up like coiled springs whenever he lingered too long. The man himself had lost weight since taking the role as headmaster much to the dismay of the castle's house elves, who never passed an opportunity to deliver trays of tea, biscuits, and various fruits to his office whenever they felt they could get away with it. He had threatened them with clothes if they didn't leave him alone; none would listen. _You is master of Hogwarts_ , they would squeak, their voices uncharacteristically firm in the face of his ire. _Elves take care of master. Master takes care of castle._

If the stout, wrinkled creatures had their way, Snape would be putting on a stone a month and visiting his tailor for much-needed seam adjustments by the week.

It didn't seem to matter to them that he had been the one to murder their last, and most beloved, headmaster.

Snape hadn't forgiven himself so easily.

He had been in his office— _Albus's office_ , he couldn't help but privately refer to it—drowning in a rare moment of self-pity over the school's accounting ledger when the jet-black owl landed heavily on the sill and pecked at the window with such urgency Snape suspected the winged menace might just shatter the glass if he wasn't let inside fast enough. Once he had made use of his creaking joints and risen woodenly to accept the owl, his scowl compounded ever deeper as he recognized just who the bird belonged to.

Ares, the melanistic nightmare pecking at his hands as he struggled to release the letter tied to its leg, belonged to Antonin Dolohov.

"Damn bird," Snape muttered, giving up on the unyielding knot and whipping out his wand. The owl screeched at the sight and dug its claws in so deep to Snape's shoulder that it nearly drew blood. " _Come here!_ " Ares was hilariously well-named, in Snape's opinion. When he finally managed to spell open the knot and capture the now-crumpled missive, he grabbed at the owl, ignored its thrashing in his grip, and tossed it bodily out the window before wandlessly spelling it shut. Moments later the bird took flight and no doubt returned to its master—the interaction, as far as past ones usually went, was downright affectionate.

Snape and Dolohov had never been extremely close. Snape had been two years behind him in Hogwarts, and even as members of Voldemort's coveted Inner Circle they didn't have much interaction outside of shared raids, revels, and summons. Snape knew enough of Dolohov to have passed judgement ( _quick-tempered, single-minded, barely-restrained loose cannon_ ) to have decided long ago he wanted nothing to do with the man. Snape's life was unpredictable as it was; he had no use for a violent former cursebreaker. Dolohov's stint in Azkaban had made it exceedingly easy for the better part of two decades for Snape to pretend the other wizard didn't exist altogether.

Needless to say, the two men didn't often exchange pleasantries via mail.

Unease clogged Snape's throat as he read the letter. It was three lines written heavy-handed in black ink, the words curving to the left and down as if the writer couldn't hold their quill steady. For the first time in many months Severus Snape found himself shocked, afraid, and unsure of what action to take.

Antonin Dolohov had taken Hermione Granger into custody, and they were both on the run from the Dark Lord.

Above Antonin's hastily-scribbled initials were two words Snape hadn't heard since Albus uttered them high up on the astronomy tower as he begged for death— _Severus, please_.

* * *

Antonin Dolohov was fucked.

Completely, utterly _fucked_.

Not even in the fun way, he would add; there was nothing pleasurable about this situation he had found himself in, and for the seventh time since his hasty apparition to his ancestral home at Dolohov Keep, he wondered if it would be easier to just press his wand against his temple and cast a particularly powerful _Bombarda_. Blowing his brains out was preferable in many ways to facing the cock-up of a nightmare this situation had bloomed into. He was aware of what the other Death Eaters thought of him—that he was mad, too obsessive, too easily riled into action—but he had never given their opinions much weight until hours before. He had been burning with need to kill the girl, drunk on his compulsion to finish what he started in the Department of Mysteries. There hadn't been room in his head for anything else.

 _And look where it got you_ , he thought viciously.

As he paced the length of the hallway outside of his bedroom (the girl was unconscious and warded tight in _his bedroom_ , oh gods) he considered how careless and inelegant he had been in his interrogation. Strike one, he got too emotionally invested in her surrender, too enthralled by her fire and the thought of her impending death. Strike two, he told her about the spell that scarred her delicate skin so violently, no doubt jogging her memory and giving her an unsavory idea. Strike three, he allowed her to touch him. To draw blood. To touch his wand.

He had underestimated her, and now he would suffer the consequences.

There was a part of him that wanted to think the girl was too innocent and naïve to know just what spell she cast was intended for. _Surely no books available to her at Hogwarts would cover a ritual so dark?_ Most volumes on ancient blood magic had been burned after the establishment of the Ministry of Magic centuries before, right about the time witches and wizards turned to using wands individually instead of casting in groups. The ones that survived typically discussed blood runes and wards. Technically, she _had_ cast a ward. A very, very old one.

How the girl managed to pronounce the incantation correctly despite being half-delirious with a mouth full of her own broken teeth he had no idea. The portraits of his ancestors hanging in the dark hallway tracked him with their eyes as he growled in frustration, coming to a stop with his fists in his hair. _Careless_. He had been so unforgivably careless.

It had taken him longer than he would have liked to admit to realize what she had done. When the spell hit him he felt like he had been struck by lightning—his blood boiled, his eyes melted, his skin flayed in ribbons. His magic had been a raw, struck nerve that electrified his spinal cord and lit up his brain like a yule tree. He was left gasping and disoriented, sprawled out on his back near the bed while the girl laughed hysterically on the rug where he left her. It was a small mercy the girl had dropped his wand and let it roll away—he had wordlessly summoned it to his hand and cursed her immediately in knee-jerk retaliation, mind still fuzzy and not quite processing what she had done.

His _Crucio_ hit her with such force she lost consciousness. When the spell rebounded off her shaking body and hit him in return, he had thrown up from the pain and didn't know what to think. Once recovered, he roused her awake and hit her with a weak stinging hex. As expected, the spell rebounded and stung him as well.

Realization can be a tragic feeling.

The girl, his fiery, willful girl, had somehow managed to bind their magic together as one. The Sacred 28 Pureblood families sometimes used a modified version of the spell as a betrothal bond. The modern Department of Magical Law Enforcement condoned another modification of the ancient spell in the form of Unbreakable Vows. However he named it, he knew what her spell intended to do: Dolohov couldn't hurt her without hurting himself, and if one of them died, the other would also. The girl had ensured, in the strongest, most absolute way, that Dolohov would be unable to hurt her.

The hallway, situated on the interior of his home with no windows, was blue-dark without any light shining from the unlit wall sconces. When Dolohov unbuttoned his shirt and prodded at his chest with his fingertips he felt more than saw the fresh scar there, a scar identical to the one on Hermione Granger.

* * *

He was in his late father's study when the wards of the Keep started singing to him, and he had barely just enough time to brandish his wand when the fireplace roared to life and the tall, spidery frame of Severus Snape stepped out of the flames and onto the hearth.

Dolohov leveled his wand at Snape with one hand, his other calmly clasped around a half-empty tumbler of firewhiskey. "Are you going to cooperate?" he asked, his voice low and harsh.

Severus didn't even bother taking out his wand. The pale wizard, so thin since the last time Dolohov had laid eyes on him, folded himself onto the couch without invitation and stared up at him with such exasperation that it made the older man feel foolish. "You send me a winged demon intent on pecking the skin off my hands and threaten my supposed secrets with exposure to the Dark Lord, Antonin. I wouldn't be here if I didn't intend to… _cooperate_." His voice, ever the silky baritone Dolohov remembered, could have cut glass with its frosty disdain.

Dolohov dropped his wand unceremoniously to his father's desk and leaned heavily against the adjacent bookcase, his skull tipping back to rest on the dusty book spines. In the dim lighting of the study he looked older than his forty-odd years. "I have made a mistake, Severus."

"No shit."

Dolohov looked up with a glare. "You really dare give me such cheek, knowing what I know about your loyalties?"

Snape was unshakeable—always had been—and his expression betrayed nothing. "You would have gone straight to the Dark Lord with your suspicions if you had any real want to. Furthermore, you have no proof. I have been nothing but faithful in my service to our Lord and you know it."

A silence settled between the pair. Dolohov drained his glass and returned it to the sideboard. "I saw the way you looked at that redheaded mudblood when we were at Hogwarts, Snape. I know her son is Harry Potter."

"You will _not_ speak of Lily."

"Then you will help me," Dolohov implored. "The Granger girl has bound her magic to mine. I cannot bring this matter before the Dark Lord—he will forcibly extract the girl's memories himself and kill us both with one curse if he finds out. My actions may not have suggested it in the past, but I have no desire to die so soon. I survived the witch trials in my home country, I survived Azkaban, and I intend to survive this also. My magic is bound to the girl. Her magic is bound to me. I've tried to break the wards but they have resisted every technique I know."

For the first time since entering Dolohov's home, Snape looked uncomfortable. "What do you want from me, Antonin?"

"I need a potion, a spell, _anything_! I have to sever the bond between us. The Dark Lord had tasked me with recovering the girl's memories of Potter and I have to kill her. I won't have myself die in the process," Dolohov explained. The dark wizard sank onto the opposite end of the couch and leaned forward, his face falling into the cradle of his palms.

Severus shifted. Moments later, his signature black coat had been removed and banished to a hook near the door. "And you are willing to blackmail me—with no evidence, might I add—to secure my help?" Snape sneered.

Dolohov raised his face and looked at Snape, really looked at him. The man hadn't changed much from the hook-nosed, skinny teenager he had been when Dolohov first went to Azkaban, if he were being honest, and something about the familiarity it inspired compelled his next words. "I know you killed Albus Dumbledore by his command, Severus," he quietly confided. "I was there, the night Draco failed in the Astronomy Tower. I was a cursebreaker before, don't you remember? I am intimately familiar with wards and charms of protection. I knew Dumbledore had ordered you to kill him the minute you cast the Killing Curse. Hogwarts castle is very nearly sentient all on its own, given the ancient layering of wards placed around it…those wards extend to the Headmaster. I've felt it. The fact that the castle didn't immediately suck you into the dungeons and wall you off without preamble told me all I needed to know. The others wouldn't know to look for it. They wouldn't have known."

Severus Snape was carefully, deliberately still.

"How is Hogwarts treating you, Severus?" Dolohov continued, turning his attention to the fire flickering happily in the grate. "Does the castle respond to your commands? Do the grounds allow you to apparate freely? Do the house elves cater to your every whim?" When Severus didn't respond Dolohov plowed forward. "None of that would be possible if you had murdered Dumbledore in cold blood. The castle would know. Ancient magic always calls for blood when that of the master has been spilled."

There was something strangled and pained in Snape's voice when he finally found it. "I will not inform the Dark Lord of your…indiscretions, as long as you do not inform him of my disloyalty," Snape stated quietly. "I will require a Vow from you to ensure it."

Dolohov turned his attention to his colleague and considered him. _What was one more binding in this mess, really?_ "Done."

* * *

Some hours later after Severus left him, Dolohov found himself creeping back towards his bedroom where the Granger girl laid under stasis charm. Snape had managed to heal her completely with his potions—Dolohov's least favorite subject in school—and now she rested on his bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He had charmed the room to prevent her from snooping or trying to escape; many hours later when she would wake there would be nothing about his bedchamber that could assist her in getting away from him.

He couldn't kill her now, but he could keep her until he found a way.

Severus had tried, and failed, to conceal the disgust on his face when he tipped potions down the girl's throat and listened to Dolohov's descriptions of how he had tortured her. It was easy for him to forget that Severus had been her teacher; despite Snape's legendary hatred of children he kept a rigid code of honor when it came to those under his charge, something that the other Death Eaters had teased him mercilessly for. Dolohov knew Severus hadn't been fond of the girl, but it was plain that the younger man had no real wish to see her brutalized if the judgmental glances cast in Dolohov's direction were any indication. Dolohov knew that Severus wouldn't have agreed to help him, blackmail or not, if the girl was at risk of being in any danger. _Any longer, anyway_. Dolohov couldn't hurt the girl and it settled whatever misgivings the Order's spy had been harboring about leaving Granger with him alone.

Ultimately, Snape's betrayal to the Dark Lord wasn't concerning. Dolohov had long suspected that Severus wasn't as loyal as he claimed, but until witnessing Hogwarts castle allow Snape's escape after killing Dumbledore he didn't have any proof. It had been curious, but not intriguing enough to question. Snape did as the Dark Lord bid him and never truly hurt their Lord's cause, so what was the harm in allowing him his secrets? Dolohov certainly had many of his own.

The Dark Lord had changed exponentially since he had risen. The handsome, gently persuasive young man Dolohov had quickly become so enamored with was now a sinuous stretch of reptilian grey flesh, his lips pale and his eyes inhumanly crimson. He was bald, he had no nose, and his hands lacked the human warmth they used to possess when they carded through Dolohov's hair. Beauty wasn't something Dolohov was too concerned with, but there was one thing, something inescapable that even Bellatrix, for all her devotion, had noticed—

—their Lord was losing his mind.

Paranoia about Potter gripped Lord Voldemort so completely that he hadn't campaigned against anything else since he rose into his new body. His judgments against his followers were quicker, harsher. The Mark burned more frequently. The original purpose of the Death Eaters, those chosen few who had pledged their lives to the cause, had been stifled to near dissipation.

Tom, the powerful, alluring wizard who had taken Dolohov under his wing and nurtured him into his power, had morphed into something that none of his followers recognized.

Dolohov slipped inside the bedroom and looked down on the girl as she slept. She had never known Tom like he had. She was weaned on stories of the Dark Lord as a tyrant and a murderer, ugly and evil. Tom used to collect bright fires like the one inside the girl—had she been born some two decades before, perhaps she would have fallen to his charms and been seduced into the dark like they all had. Blood purity had been a simple facet of their goals, back then, not the all-consuming means to an end it was now. Tom wouldn't have given her the Mark, but he would have favored her. He would have encouraged and kindled all that delicious fire.

The dark wizard stood sentinel over the girl for as long as he dared before leaving for the study once more, the fresh mark of the Vow he made to Snape burning like shackles around his wrists.

* * *

 **A/N: The plot thickens! The Death Eaters are beginning to doubt Voldemort, Dolohov knows Snape's secret, and Hermione is now at the mercy of two men she knows she can't trust. She's (relatively) safe for now. Up Next: Hermione is confronted with the consequences of what she's done to stay alive and Snape struggles to maintain control over Hogwarts. What ever happened to Harry and Ron, do you wonder?**

 **Additionally, I'd like to say that I feel very spoiled from all the follows and favorites! I hope y'all are enjoying this as much as I'm enjoying writing it.**


	6. Chapter 6

_This is ridiculous_ , Hermione thought to herself, one pale hand coming up to grip at the doorframe as she stared into a cozy dining room. Here she was—muggleborn, member of the Order of the Phoenix, Harry Potter's best friend—and she was preparing to break bread with a Death Eater. When the small, unsettling house elf walked her down the long, dark hallway and deposited her in front of the door she hadn't known what to think, but now, looking into the room where a long dining table and a collection of chairs sat, she found herself even more lost than she would have expected. Waking up in what she highly suspected was Antonin Dolohov's bed had thrown her so off-balance she didn't think she'd ever regain her metaphorical footing.

The Death Eater in question had discarded his robes in favor of a black buttoned shirt rolled to the elbows, which were resting on the table in front of him, his long fingers laced in front of his mouth as he contemplated her. The scruff of hair on his face was in a rough approximation of freshly shaved and his hair was wet. No emotion touched the dark eyes sitting under a heavy brow. When she didn't move from the entrance his voice cut the air low and sharp—"Sit."

Her eyes flicked down to his wand where it rested innocuously on the table next to his water glass. With hesitation and something akin to a choked laugh clogged in her sore throat, she eased into the room and took the chair opposite his.

The room was pleasant enough, but nowhere near the show of effortless wealth of Malfoy Manor. Hermione had suspected Dolohov had removed her from the Manor the moment she woke up; the bedroom she awoke in had been spacious and well-appointed, but it lacked the gold fixtures and nauseating curlicues on heavy, ornate furniture she associated with the Malfoy name. This space had been all rough stone walls and a simple, iron chandelier—wealthy, but quietly so. She had no idea where she was. Since he removed her from the Manor, Hermione assumed he was well aware the intention of the spell she had cast on him. _He can't hurt me_ , she fiercely reminded herself as she fidgeted with the simple place mat. _The bond won't let him_.

Dolohov turned his head casually to the side and called out, "Dessy?" A house elf, the same hunched, wrinkled creature that had appeared in the bedroom the moment her feet hit the floor, popped into existence and fell into a low bow. Dolohov said something to the elf in Russian and moments later, food appeared on the table. Hermione was too off-balance to muster any excitement for a spread of food she hadn't seen the likes of since beginning the hunt for horcruxes at the start of the summer.

Dolohov's attention was a laser when it turned back to her. "First, we will eat. Then we will talk. You will not say a single word to me until then, are we clear?"

Thoroughly conditioned from Hogwarts to jump at the sound of a stern voice, Hermione replied without thinking. "Yes, sir." The instant stab of self-loathing and disgust that lanced through her at the compliant reply was lost in a wave of hunger as the dark wizard motioned her to eat.

The meal was over too quickly and Hermione felt vaguely queasy by the end of it. The food alone—steaming porridge, fresh fruit, and buttered toast—was too rich and substantial to sit well compared to the bland, light fare she and her friends scrounged together in the tent. Hermione's hands shook with nerves every time she handled her fork and she kept her gaze firmly planted on her plate. At that moment, it didn't matter to her that Dolohov was most likely going to dispose of her afterwards; all that mattered was that he had inexplicably healed her, let her sleep, charmed her clothes mended, and fed her. Exhausted from hardship and terror as she was, Hermione was ready to accept any small kindness no matter who enacted it. Something that felt horribly like defeat was pulling at her usually proud posture and she hoped her meal companion didn't notice.

Once Dolohov's house elf cleared the table and pulled back the curtains on the far wall Hermione chanced a look around the dining room. The wall sconces were lowly lit and windows covered the far wall floor-to-ceiling; the view of the outdoors, nearly barren with creeping winter and jutting with mountains in the distance, shocked her into silence where she was about to speak. _Where am I?_ she thought desperately for what felt like the hundredth time. This estate had no gardens. The sun, a weak glow of white just above the rolling horizon, was covered with a thin film of clouds. Even this far east, she assumed, the pervasive fog brought about by the breeding Dementors tainted the pale autumn sky. Since their banishment from Azkaban the vile creatures had taken residence around Muggle cities; Hermione had remembered the flabbergasted news reports in the late spring as meteorologists attempted to explain the depressing, unseasonal fog. _No need for the real thing_ , Hermione griped snidely to herself. _I've got a veritable Dementor right here at the breakfast table._

"I think you know why I brought you to my home," Dolohov began.

Hermione's attention returned to him alongside her trepidation. The growing lump of anxiety in her throat grew larger—she had no wand and no sure footing to stand on. The wizard continued speaking, his eyes unfocused as they stared beyond the window, as if he did not notice her shifting uncomfortably across the wide table. She knew this to be false. The dark wizard noticed everything. "It would not do either of us any good to remain at the Manor…not in this _condition_ , anyway."

Hermione found her voice and attempted to make use of it. "Do you—"

" _Don't_ interrupt," Dolohov snapped. When his eyes turned to hers there was a horrible touch of madness to his face that shocked her into silence. She recognized that look. Looming over her. Whispering curses. "No harm will come to you at this place, at least not for now. I needed somewhere to keep you until I can figure out a way to break this damned bond you've forced between us. The minute it is broken your life is forfeit, do you understand?"

The heartbeats of silence that passed between them seemed to stretch into several painfully-awkward eternities as Hermione considered her answer. With a jolt of realization she understood exactly what he meant. "Your home is Unplottable and you're the sole Secret Keeper," she reasoned. Dolohov jerked his head in a single nod. She continued. "What's going to stop me from trying to leave? What are you going to tell the other Death Eaters about my disappearance?"

The corner of Dolohov's mouth twitched in irritation as he considered her. His fists were curling where they rested on the table, but she pressed on. "If You Know Who doesn't know where I am and you haven't told anyone where you were taking me…good god, you've _defected_ , haven't you?"

Dolohov's water glass, half-full and abandoned between them where he had left it after the conclusion of breakfast, exploded in a feat of wandless magic that made Hermione nearly swallow her tongue in surprise. Glittering shards of glass spewed in all directions and tepid water splashed over them both. Hermione didn't dare move beyond a single, fearful jerk, unease rooting her to her seat. Even considering his intense outburst of anger at her words his face was curiously blank. She was too stunned to brush away the glittering glass shards that sat in her lap.

"You stupid girl," he spat, his accent thicker than usual. "I am _still_ a Death Eater. I am still loyal to my Lord. I simply need some time away to think about how to get myself out of this mess you've somehow dragged me into. I won't have myself tied to a little mudblood bitch for the rest of my days—I'm still going to kill you. I'll relish it." He rose from the table and loomed over it, his palms coming to rest heavily on the placemat as he glared at her. "Little girls shouldn't play with blood wards. Our connection is volatile at the moment, can't you feel it? You probably didn't even cast it correctly. I'll have it broken in short order and then you'll be dead."

 _Can't you feel it?_ Dolohov's words rung in her mind like a bell—since waking she had been so concerned about the _wheres_ and _hows_ and _whys_ of the situation that, beyond taking stock of her physical health, she hadn't considered to feel for the magical link now tying her to the formidable Death Eater.

Hermione closed her eyes despite her better senses screaming at her not to— _don't let him out of your sight!_ —and cleared her mind. Her occlumency shields faded around her thoughts like they usually did, but just there—

Her eyes snapped open and sought Dolohov's. There, in her mind, was a faint vein of magic penetrating her mental shields, tying her to the wizard across the table. As she focused on the dim connection it flared to life and the indescribable feeling of magic washed down her spine like cool water. This was the same feeling she got when she picked up her wand after a long time away from it, or the rush of feeling that crashed in her marrow when she cast a new spell for the first time. Across the table Dolohov's face pinched in discomfort.

"Stop that," he commanded, withdrawing his hands from the table. Hermione didn't miss the way his fingers twitched toward his tabled wand as he pulled away, as if he were itching to hex her. He stood as tight as a stone statue.

"You can feel it?" Hermione whispered. This kind of magic was so new to her—the _possibilities_ —

"Yes, I can. Much more thoroughly than you are able, I imagine, but in time you will come to realize just the flavor of hell you've basted us in," he grumbled. "I suspect within the next few days the bond will solidify and will become more apparent. It will not be pleasant for either of us."

"Have you seen this kind of binding spell before?" Hermione questioned. Her earlier fear was rapidly waning as she switched into a more educational mindset; Dolohov might have been a despicable, terroristic murderer, but she was well aware that he was an expert in the field of charms. Despite this, Hermione wasn't worried he could break their new, tenuous bond. She had done her reading. It was permanent.

The sharp knife of unease that stabbed her gut at the thought of being tied to him permanently was swiftly cast away. _Not now, Hermione_.

He finally picked up his wand. "This particular kind? Not quite. Blood wards fell out of favor many centuries ago." His stare became something more of a leer and she gulped. "Now where did a pretty little mudblood learn blood magic, I wonder? Just what have you been up to?"

Hermione slammed up her occlumency shields as tightly as she could, aware that the bond splintered them at the base like a mooring tether. The memory of his shaky Legilimency skills didn't appease her sense of paranoia that he might slip into her thoughts and glean the memories about horcruxes—she couldn't afford for him to find out what Harry and Ron were up to. "Just some light reading, really," she lied weakly. She wanted to bolt from the table. He was going to question her again, ask for her memories, and torture her when she didn't comply—

"You know I can't hurt you," he soothed. She didn't stop to consider how he might have known that was what she was thinking. "I want to, though," he rasped. "Desperately." One of his hands drifted towards his chest and Hermione swallowed with difficulty as he played with the fabric sitting directly over where the scar on her own chest was.

 _It's a pity such a pretty voice was wasted on a wretch like him_ , she thought, steadfastly trying to ignore the warning bells ringing in her ears. When he spoke to her like that, all gravel and silk, she found it very difficult to ignore the physical jolt of interest it caused. Instead of wallowing in self-loathing at the reaction she simply filed it away as an observation and vowed to _never_ return to it. "Have you tried?" Hermione asked in a small voice, horribly embarrassed by the creeping flush that stained her cheeks. "To hurt me since I cast the spell?"

"You don't remember?" his answering smile was wolfish. "My, you were quite _gone_ near the end there, weren't you?" As fast as the smile came it dropped. Dolohov straightened to his full height and made to leave the room, turning as he approached the door opposite to the one she entered from. "Dessy will show you to your temporary quarters. Like I said, no harm will come to you until I can ensure no harm will come to _me_ , either. I'll have this bond broken in short order and your lovely corpse will be cooling on the floor before we know it."

The casual manner in which he spoke of her impending death chilled her. She didn't know what to say, until she did. "What is going to happen if you can't break the bond?"

He opened the far door and didn't look at her. "They didn't call me a cursebreaker for nothing, _pchelka_. Play nice with my elf."

He was gone, and Hermione's sense of hope went with him.

There was no way out.

* * *

He had to get away from the girl, _now_.

Antonin had underestimated the effects the bond would have on him, and belatedly, he cursed himself for refusing the suppressant potion Severus had offered him the night before. _You know it will only get worse, Antonin_ , the professor had assured him, a small vial of pearlescent liquid extended from his hand between them. _Do you really want to know everything the girl is feeling at any given moment?_

 _It will be useful_ , Antonin had argued. _We don't know how the bond will manifest in totality, I might not feel anything from her at all_. He hated himself. It wasn't useful, not the least bit—all throughout breakfast his mind had been saturated with thoughts of the girl, and not even the fun kind where she screamed for mercy and died at his wand. He could feel everything about her. It was driving him mad. Surely it would be more efficient to prevent her escape by locking her in a room and warding her to the teeth; there was no need for him to sense her emotions from afar to monitor her whereabouts if that were the case.

He had felt keenly the moment she had awoken in his bedroom, confused and sore. Through the bond he could feel her stiffness, her hunger, the disconcerting sense that she wasn't where she was supposed to be—the blood tie between them translated physical sensation and emotions as readily as it had translated pain. The bond would work to ensure he couldn't hurt her at the price of him being able to feel everything she could.

He could ignore it, just barely.

The sensation that primarily demanded his attention, however, was the forceful burning of his Mark. The Dark Lord had been calling him insistently, no doubt aware that he was no longer at the Manor with the girl; she had been correct when she assumed his home was Unplottable. The charms layered over Dolohov Keep rendered it as secure as the Manor, with one quirk—the Dark Lord couldn't follow them here. For the time being, the girl was safe in these oft-abandoned halls. Dolohov knew with certainty that the minute he showed his face among his brethren the Dark Lord would cut him down for moving against his orders, and when he turned his wrathful attentions to the girl the pair would die at the cast of a single curse. One could not live without the other. Dolohov sneered. What an unlikely protector he was.

He returned to the study and set about sending another letter to Severus. The girl was awake and cared for—it had been one of Severus's conditions for his assistance that the girl be cared for properly and not just secreted away in a dank prison cell to rot. The estate didn't have a cellar, for one, and two, the man himself didn't think he could survive it if he had to be privy to the girl's discomfort and misery at all hours of the day. Severus hadn't listened to his protestations. For a man with much to lose, the potions master hadn't batted an eye at Dolohov's insistence of blackmail. The two wizards had reached an uneasy impasse with one another.

The note he scribbled to Severus was short and exact, just as his last one:

 ** _The girl is awake. If a solution is not found soon I will relinquish her into your care temporarily. I have a contact that may be able to help us and I must travel alone._**

Dolohov didn't like the thought of being away from his prisoner for any length of time; if Severus weren't entirely capable he wouldn't have even considered such a separation, given that his well-being and life were tied so intimately to hers. It was unlikely the girl would come to harm in the professor's care…in any case, she was much safer at Hogwarts Castle under the nose of the Dark Lord than where he planned to go.

* * *

 **A/N: Hermione is awake! The bond is still solidifying between them...what do you think will happen next? Sounds like Dolohov intends to give her to Snape for a little while as he tries to rectify the situation. Up next: Draco Malfoy, Severus Snape, and an unexpected individual from Dolohov's past.**

 **Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review! I love to read your comments and feel very loved with each notification I receive. I hope you're enjoying my highly-improbable headcanons and bastardization of how magic works, because I'm having a blast :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Just quickly, before we continue—a thousand hugs to my reviewers, who have made me squeal at an embarrassingly high pitch every time they bless me with their thoughts and predictions. If you'd like me to respond to your comments, please sign in! Much love xx**

* * *

Aleksei Dolohov's study was a place of dual refuge and torment for Antonin.

Before escaping Malfoy Manor the night before he hadn't returned to his estate in many weeks; the Dark Lord wasn't keen on allowing him to leave the Manor lest a breach of security come to pass. Despite being in control of the Ministry of Magic and expanding his borders of influence across Europe, the reptilian mage harbored intense fantasies of being overthrown by the dwindling Order of the Phoenix. At first Antonin had thought the precautionary measures to be overzealous. Now, after the fantastic escape of the Manor's prisoners via house elf, Antonin conceded that maybe there were facets of the situation he had overlooked in favor of convenience—the Dark Lord, for all of his paranoia and madness, had been scarily quick to punish him for the oversight.

The potions Severus gave him to calm his overstimulated nerves from the aftershocks of the _Cruciatus_ only took the edge off Antonin's tremoring hands.

With quaking fingers Antonin perused the scant collection of books stacked on the shelves in his father's study. Aleksei had never allowed his son inside the small, dark room when he had been a boy—occasionally, usually sometime after somber family dinners when his father would take to his cups, Antonin would creep along the hallway outside and catch glimpses of his father's desk through the half-open door. On even rarer occasions his mother's voice would filter in from beyond the cracked entrance and fill the corridor with her light, musical tones in contrast to his father's harsh laugh. His parents did not get along often, but such stolen moments when they did Antonin treasured in some forgotten chamber of his cold, black heart. He had no siblings. His mother spent most of her time in France. His father Aleksei, a stern disciplinarian and master of charms, had taken it upon himself to oversee Antonin's education and dole out punishments whenever his lofty standards weren't met. In Azkaban Antonin would turn his palms to the weak light shining in from the bars of his cell and inspect the faint lines of scars crossing haphazardly over his palms; something about the memory of his father lashing his wand against his hands in chastisement had been comforting, then. Now, as Antonin stood a man in the sanctuary his father had sought to avoid him, the memory of the marks left a sour taste in his mouth.

Not many books of Aleksei's once-vast collection had survived the move from Russia. The witch trials of the sixties had seen countless magical villages and dwellings razed to the earth, and the Dolohov library somewhere in the magical sectors of Novosibirsk had been one of the first buildings to perish in the flames. Antonin surveyed the titles of the remaining tomes and tried to swallow back the irritation knotting at the base of his tongue— _my_ _father has to have a book about this somewhere,_ he thought.

The circumstances surrounding Aleksei and Kira's rocky marriage hadn't been a secret in Pureblood circles, but Antonin could remember being shocked, despite everything he had witnessed, that his parents hadn't loved one another how he suspected those of his schoolmates did. The ritual blood bond forged between them—forced at the behest of their families when they were young—was meant to ensure the continuation of the Dolohov family line and to secure a better way of life for Kira, who had been the Pureblood daughter of a poor drunkard. Aleksei had spent much of Antonin's childhood researching a way to break the bond for good. Kira had gone about the matter with far more practicality: she simply traveled as much as she was able.

Kira died when Antonin was in Hogwarts, and his father, a naturally paranoid man who was far too brilliant to be losing his mind in such a way, had folded to his vices and conceded that, _yes_ , maybe the Dolohov line was cursed. The books in his study, though few, represented the culmination of his research throughout Antonin's childhood about his own marriage bond. More modern betrothal bonds were known to be breakable under certain circumstances; the one between Antonin's parents had been a forgotten remnant of the Old Way, a most final promise that what was said to happen, _did_. It was bitter irony that Antonin found himself in a warped mirror image of what his parents struggled through all those decades before.

Antonin selected a volume off the shelf at random and set about finding a solution to his own forced blood bond. Kira had died before Aleksei had found a way to sever the tie between them; Hermione, the fiery girl whose magic tethered his, was still very much alive. There was hope, if scant. _There has to be something useful in here somewhere._

* * *

The room Dessy ushered her into was presumably on the same hall as the room she woke up in, but this one, much dustier and smaller than the last, looked as if it hadn't been entered in decades. White sheets covered the scattered collection of furniture and there was no window. The attached bathroom, while appreciated, was in dire need of a good scrubbing before it could be considered even the least bit usable. Once again Hermione found herself in a cozier version of a dank prison cell, but the sentiment behind it remained the same. All the lush fabrics and thick carpet could have been mold and stone for all the good it did her.

Dessy waddled in, snapped her gnarled fingers, and the room cleaned itself before Hermione's eyes.

"Master wants Young Miss to stay here and not leave. Dessy will bring meals. Healing potions taken before bed. Master wants Dessy to use force if Young Miss doesn't listen," the elf squeaked. Hermione peered down at the elf; she was wearing what appeared to be a tied black pillowcase as a dress, and her comically large eyes were milky-white over brown irises. The elf was old. Possibly older than Dolohov. Even though there was no resemblance between this elf and Dobby, Hermione couldn't help the awful curl of hope that pooled in her gut. If Dobby had been able to help Harry and Ron escape, perhaps _this_ elf—

"Dessy?" Hermione started, mindful to keep her voice light. "Do you know why I am here?"

The elf, busy turning down the freshly-made bed and stoking the fire in the small grate in the corner, didn't turn to look at her as she responded. "Master wants Young Miss here and that is all Dessy knows."

The curl of hope was an oscillating whirl, now, and excitement colored her voice without thought. "Your master has hurt me, Dessy, and I don't belong here. I have to get out—"

The elf whirled around and held up a single, long-fingered hand in the motion for _stop_. "Dessy does not care about what Young Miss Mudblood has to say. Dessy helps Master and Miss Mudblood _obeys_." The maniacal narrowing of Dessy's eyes disturbingly mirrored that of her master and Hermione found herself at a loss of words. "Now," Dessy continued, her demeanor relaxing quickly, "Dessy brings dinner at six." With that, she disappeared with a sharp crack, leaving Hermione alone and dumbfounded in the locked—and surely warded—room.

Hermione was no stranger to the phenomenon of elves taking on the prejudices of their masters; Kreacher, the ugly, ineffective elf at Grimmauld Place, had never passed an opportunity to spew vulgar words at her when they crossed paths. Even some of the Hogwarts elves treated her with a certain frostiness—and that was before her misguided intentions with SPEW. All of that accounted for, there was something uniquely horrible about Dessy calling her a mudblood. _Just like her master_ , Hermione thought bitterly. She sat unblinkingly on the end of the bed and tried not to let the well of stinging tears fall down her face. The jagged scar on her arm, though smartly covered with her sleeve, seemed to pulse in time with Hermione's humiliation as she was once again reminded of her place in Voldemort's new society. Dessy was a product of her environment but it didn't take the sting away from her sure words.

Perhaps it wasn't the elf's behavior that troubled her—it was Dolohov's.

The dreadful predictability she had painted him with back at the Manor—knowing certain that he lusted for her death above all else—was gone with the addition of their blood bond. The man was hot and cold, resting his actions towards her on the razor's edge of brutality and civility. One minute he was sharing a meal with her as if she were an equal, and the next he was locking her in a room and letting her know they were only "playing house" for as long as it took him to break the bond between them. Since she had awoken he hadn't so much as raised his voice at her, and she had been prepared for so much worse. The memory of his torture was a dizzying blur that she mentally fortified into a seldom-ventured corner of her mind. _Don't think about it not now not ever don't you dare,_ she admonished herself frantically.

She flopped onto her back with her arms spread wide, her curls knocking back to form a crooked halo around her head as she considered the stone ceiling. She hated the part of herself that missed waking up in Dolohov's bed, despite everything. Even without confirmation she knew it had been his. His lingering magical signature and heady scent was all over the sheets, and that bed had been miles more comfortable than this one. There was something perversely familiar about his bedroom, just knowing that it was his, and she knew _him_ —familiarity was a comfort that she hadn't had in many months, not since apparating away from the Burrow at Bill and Fleur's crashed wedding. Even the tent she shared with Ron and Harry lacked the specific kind of warmth and sameness that other, physical places did.

There was time to reminisce and feel sorry for herself, she decided, but now wasn't it. With gritted teeth she pushed off the bed and began to catalog every nook and cranny of the room, intent on finding something to help her escape. _You're going to survive this_ , she assured herself. Her bones were tired, her pride bruised, and she felt as scared as a little girl wailing for her mother. _You're also Hermione-fucking-Granger_.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, the blood bond throbbed quietly to remind her she wasn't alone, her senses not yet honed enough to pick up on its omnipresent pulse.

* * *

Dolohov roused from sleep with a sharp jolt of tensed shoulders and blurry eyes; he hadn't meant to drift off, but given the tax his magic had been running the past few days on little sleep, he wasn't surprised he had nodded off right at his father's desk in the now-dark study, his forehead pressing to the pages of an open book with heavy exhaustion. His left hand had knocked over a well of ink and a tower of ripped, balled parchment now sported inky blotches and stuck wetly to the blotter—his previous attempts to write a sensible letter to Severus Snape had failed spectacularly. He wanted to send something concise and unaffected. To his mounting vexation all he could manage were rough, all-capital renditions of _I AM GOING TO COMMIT SUICIDE BY KILLING THE MUDBLOOD_ and _I'M TRAPPED I'M TRAPPED I'M TRAPPED_. His father's book collection now laid scattered about the small room (some with ripped pages, torn binding, and torch marks from his enraged wand) and not a _damned_ _one_ had anything helpful to tell him.

He had managed to confirm several things he already suspected, but there was no hint that such a bond he now held could be broken to any degree. The curse he cast on the girl in the Department of Mysteries complicated things immensely, too; he warded her death as something only he could claim, and by doing so, he fulfilled the contract prerequisite of _making a vow_ to her. Magically speaking, the girl had managed to forge a blood bond by tethering her need for survival to his deadly intent. Ancient, testy magic. His mind kept returning to that room at Malfoy Manor, her body sprawled broken on the floor and her bright eyes glinting dully through rings of bruises. Even half-dead and tortured delirious, the girl had been magnificent. She smiled at him—all razors and spite—through clots of blood and damned him straight to hell. _Gods_ , his wand responded to her touch without a second thought when she cast the incantation, the damned treacherous slip of wood.

He remembered thinking she was so delightfully _pretty_ like that, damaged and angry and defiant to her core. Antonin understood the language of violence as fluently as he did his mother tongue. Her refusal to cooperate—and subsequently forcing him to rip his own soul apart with Dark Magic to punish her—had been as sweet as the honeyed words of a lover. When she spoke the incantation to invoke the blood bond, she could have been telling him she loved him: " _Nos unum sumos, est en sanguinem_!" He had lied to her in the dining room when he suggested she didn't cast the spell correctly. He, master of charms and cursebreaker, could sense a strong ward when he came across one. His bright _solnyshko_ had cast a veritable fucking _fortress_.

Dolohov vanished the aborted letter attempts with his wand and tapped his fingers in the wet pool of ink staining the desktop. He knew he had to summon Severus to take the girl, now. He didn't strictly _want_ to visit his proposed contact—not after nearly two decades of radio silence—but he was quickly running out of options. The Dark Mark on his left forearm was constantly burning now, the flesh feeling like it was boiling with the roll of the Dark Lord's anger. Dolohov strongly suspected he didn't have long before the Dark Lord began searching for him personally, and when that began, the limits of the _Fidelius_ charm cast over his home would be put to the ultimate test. There were no other books on blood bonds or ancient protection rites in the Keep. His father's journals had been burned years before. The expansive library at Malfoy Manor might have something useful on the subject, but he was smart enough to know that he wouldn't be able to sneak back onto the property without being killed, not after leaving with the girl in tow like he did.

There was nothing left to do. Dolohov summoned another sheet of parchment and began quilling a new missive to Severus, his fingers leaving inky, careless prints in the margins. Severus would take the girl for the time being—and he would travel to Novosibirsk and visit his father.

With any luck, Aleksei wouldn't curse him immediately on sight.

* * *

Severus didn't have time for this.

Nearly eighteen years before, Severus had fallen to his knees before Albus Dumbledore and confessed his sins. He was a Death Eater, he followed the orders of Lord Voldemort, and he had sold out his beloved Lily accidentally by telling the Dark Lord about Sybil Trelawney's prophecy. _Save her_ , he had sobbed, his heart breaking for the first—and last—time in his sorry life. Albus was a shrewd man, but he was also a compassionate one. He had offered Severus protection and a role in defeating Voldemort in return for his unwavering loyalty and actions as a spy. Severus was used to taking orders on a moment's notice and making things _work_ when there seemed to be no possible means to do so. He was known to juggle countless projects, intentions, and tasks at once. He was lauded as one of Europe's premier Potions Masters. As he stepped through Antonin Dolohov's fireplace for the _second fucking time_ in forty-eight hours he felt a very real stab of regret for agreeing to Dumbledore's terms at all. If he had been smarter he would have paid some wretch in Knockturn Alley to _Obliviate_ his memories of Lily Evans. He would have found some horrid spell to blast the Dark Mark off his arm. He would have cast aside his masters, his duties, and everything else in the world that demanded his energy. Severus Snape was tired at being at the call of others.

 _Least of all_ , he thought with venom, _the Dark Lord's favorite sociopath_.

Dolohov's messy letter was still clutched in his fist—childish ink prints and all—and his fingers sported new cuts from the Russian wizard's sorry excuse for an owl. Ares had shit on his desk before escaping through the open window. Severus had half a mind to summon the bird back and force the awful creature to eat it. The first letter that had hinted at Dolohov's "possible contact" had been thrown immediately into the fire and disregarded. He hadn't believed Dolohov to be so _desperate_.

The object of his ire was on the study's couch where he left him the time before. "What in Merlin's name is this?" he hissed, brandishing the fisted letter and flinging it at Dolohov's feet. "I cannot take the girl to Hogwarts. It's—"

"Severus," Dolohov interrupted. The man's voice was so low and soft it stopped the irate professor in his tracks. "I can't take her before my father. You know what will happen."

Snape refused to fall victim to the heavy silence that threatened to suffocate his anger. He had heard many things—mostly gossip from the Inner Circle—about Aleksei Dolohov. The man's marriage was a source of intrigue for many Purebloods that participated in high society. Despite the logic allowing Antonin time to talk to him would represent, Severus still resented that he had been roped into the plot in the first place. His role was to bide his time and placate the Dark Lord until the horcruxes could be destroyed. Nothing more, nothing less. The minute Lily's son defeated Lord Voldemort Snape planned on a bottle of firewhiskey and a quiet suicide. His debts were almost paid and he didn't want to give a single metaphorical cent more than he had to.

Severus poured himself a drink from the sideboard and downed it with a snarl. "I have half a mind to kill you myself, the Granger girl be damned," he muttered. The crystalline glass nearly shattered when he planted it back down with a forceful slam. "I am not a babysitter." How the hell was he supposed to go about his duties as Headmaster—and Lord Voldemort's blasted _favorite_ Death Eater—with the Potter brat's best friend right under his nose?

Dolohov's snort made his spine crawl; even after all these years, Severus still had a lingering sensitivity to being mocked. "I beg to differ," Dolohov drawled, leaning back and crossing his ankle over his knee. "You wait on children all day every day, no?"

"I cannot take one more," was his cold reply. His protestations were token, at this point. He would take the girl, drug her into a Dreamless Sleep, and allow Dolohov to gallop back home to question his dear father. Severus knew enough about blood bonds to know they were unbreakable—Dolohov would never successfully break it, and the Granger girl would remain safe. If anything, this development was fortuitous. Dolohov would have made a formidable opponent if they ever had the need to clash wand-to-wand in combat, should Severus's true loyalties be revealed to Voldemort and retribution for his betrayal be demanded. Him being bound to Harry Potter's best friend simply took him out of the greater fight altogether. All the easier to defeat the Dark Lord, Severus knew.

Dolohov didn't say another word, his dark eyes tracking the brooding Headmaster as he paced the length of the study. When Severus spoke, his voice was as honey-deadly as Dolohov had ever heard it. "Where is the girl, Antonin?"

Dolohov's answering smile was vicious, victorious at Severus's concession. He was pleased he could travel unimpeded. "Dessy will show you."

The house elf popped into the study—disgusting Severus with her milky eyes and slightly deranged expression—and the plan was set in motion at last.

* * *

 **A/N: I decided to cut the chapter before Draco made an appearance! I'm averaging around 3000 words a chapter—is that a good length? Harry and Ron are still on the horizon, too. All my headcanons about Dolohov's family are coming out with this one…on the nature vs. nurture debate, I'm firmly middle-road that both played into him becoming a dark wizard. So tasty to explore.**

 **Next Up: Hermione and Dolohov experience their first separation since the bond was forged. How will it affect them? What is going on at Hogwarts?**

 **Take care, y'all :)**


	8. Chapter 8

The Granger girl was awake this time.

Severus remembered her presence all too well in his classroom; she was studious to a fault and hadn't hesitated in her schooling to show it off as often as possible, her hand readily jerking into a raise at every query. He saw her constant participation in lecture discussions for what it was, having had experienced something of it himself when he was in school— _desperation_. She was a muggleborn witch in a world that automatically assumed her knowledge of magic to be less because of it. The cheeky girl, with a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes, had set out from the very first day to prove everyone wrong.

She did, for the most part. Severus was irritated by her either way.

Life on the run with Potter and Weasley had been hard on her, that much was clear, but Severus was pleased to see she was sturdy enough. _Perhaps the hunt for horcruxes is going better than I had assumed_ , Snape quietly assured himself. He tried, and failed, to suppress the wave of anger he felt at Albus for giving the children such a dangerous task without first telling him what their exact moves would be. There was a possibility he could extract this information from the girl in private later.

When Antonin's disgusting elf opened the door to a back bedroom not far from the study—Severus tried to swallow back unease at the proximity to the master suite—Granger rose to her feet swiftly from where she had been sitting crouched on the floor. Wandless and not used to having her hands empty, Severus didn't miss the way her right hand flew to her left sleeve as if to arm herself against an attack. Her hair was atrocious, her skin was sallow, and the ugly pink sweater (mended now by Antonin's wand, Severus tried not to remember the milky flesh and horrid scar underneath) hung from her slight frame in a loose way that suggested she hadn't been eating properly in some time. In front of the small fireplace where she had been sitting was a scattered collection of objects, obviously pulled out of the bathroom and from Antonin's night table.

She looked, for lack of a better description, much better than he had last seen her. Red wasn't her color. Especially not when the "red" was blood.

The girl opened her mouth in surprise when he stepped into the room, but the barest motion of his head made her jaw snap shut. "It's time to go, Miss Granger."

Several emotions ghosted across her face as she considered this. After a few seconds she seemed to settle on anger; she hadn't forgotten the role he played in Albus Dumbledore's death, having heard the account from the Potter brat's mouth shortly after it happened. Her fists opened and closed impotently as her expressive eyes settled into a defiant glare. "Do you honestly expect me to cooperate? After what you've done?"

Severus sighed. He didn't have time for this.

He moved faster than she could react. His wand fell from his sleeve into his hand, and with a motion too swift to have been born from anything other than practice, it was pointed straight for her heart. " _Stupefy_ ," he cast.

The girl fell to the floor in a stunned heap, eyes enraged behind the misty, spelled-immobile expression he rendered her in. She wasn't aware of his true role in this war—and for the foreseeable future until Antonin collected her, it would stay that way.

A levitation spell carried her into the hallway and pushed her back into the study. The fireplace in her room, while merry and bright, was too small to floo to the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts.

Antonin was waiting for them back in the study, carelessly sprawled on the couch where Severus left him. _Is he a permanent fixture in this room?_ Severus thought meanly. As soon as the girl's prone form hovered into the cramped room the dark wizard's eyes flickered to her form and didn't leave. Severus suppressed a shudder at the naked hunger he saw on Dolohov's face directed at the girl.

Antonin didn't look at Severus when he said, "I don't think I have to remind you to keep my _pchelka_ safe."

Something rolled in Severus's stomach at the gentle pet name he called the Granger girl. The situation made him nauseated—first finding her broken in Antonin's bed, then his unwavering, obsessive focus, then storing her in a room so close to his own—

Antonin's voice continued despite Snape's mounting alarm at the situation. "I will come to collect her as soon as I can."

"See to it that you do," Severus drawled, his hand coming up to grab a handful of floo powder from the silver pot on the mantle. "I have no wish to interact with your… _pet_ any longer than I have to."

There was something lazy and dangerous about Antonin's smile. He leaned back, languid and easy, and dragged his dark gaze up Severus's form as if sizing him up as a lover. "Come now, Severus," he purred, "No need to act like the big, bad Death Eater around me. Not anymore. We both know where your true loyalties lie. If anything, I should be warning you what will happen if you attempt to secret her away to the Order or something else foolish. Your hero complex is as big as Potter's, I imagine." Antonin rose to his feet and his smile fell from his face as if it had never been there. He stepped into Severus's personal space, height nearly level with him, and Severus saw the undercurrent of madness that Bellatrix wore like armor. When the Russian wizard looked at him like this, his eyes vacant of anything but maddening fire, it was hard to believe he and the eldest Black sister weren't related. "Blood bond to the mudblood bitch or not, I _will_ tell the Dark Lord about your indiscretions, my own safety be damned, if you do not relinquish her back into my care immediately upon my return. I have to kill her. I _have_ to. I won't let anyone get in the way of that."

Severus schooled his features and was very careful not to move. Dolohov had his wand in his hand and if looks could kill, Snape would have been cooling on the floor. His words were chosen carefully to deescalate the situation. "Never compare me to Potter ever again, Antonin."

The threat was explicit. Dolohov stepped away, not needing a spoken threat, and the tense moment stretching between them like taut rope was broken.

Severus threw the handful of floo powder into the grate and enunciated, " _Hogwarts Castle_." The flames danced emerald and he was soon gone, stupefied charge in tow, magically traveling across Lord Voldemort's new wizarding society to the only fireplace in Hogwarts that still had a floo connection.

* * *

 _I'm getting quite bored of this_ , Hermione thought with a touch of terrified hysteria upon waking in yet another unfamiliar place. Her skin was crawling, imagining herself as a caged circus animal; after so many months of moving freely with Harry and Ron, having her location determined by her captors without her input was wearing her patience thin. Her heart pounded and her palms drenched themselves in nervous sweat. Claustrophobia touched at her spine and she fought hyperventilation.

"Breathe, Miss Granger," came a silky voice from somewhere behind her.

She was in a round sitting room, and with a surprised jolt she realized she recognized the gray stone walls and the stylized shape of the far window Professor Snape leaned against. _Hogwarts_ , she thought weakly. Her anxiety cooled into something that resembled homesickness and she had to swallow back a quick well of tears at the thought. This was the closest Hermione had to _home_ now that her parents were in Australia. The sitting room, situated in some high turret of the castle where she hadn't been before, had sweeping views of the grounds and was decorated with sumptuous fabrics in varying shades of maroon. Professor Snape, who had his back to her and his hands resting lightly on the sill as he looked to the dark line of the Forbidden Forest in the distance, didn't turn to her.

Hermione eased off the velvet sofa and examined her new prison. She found herself unable to catalog this space as she had the last—there was an awful familiarity to this room despite its newness to her, and the more she looked around at the whirring golden trinkets and Gryffindor color scheme the sicker she felt. "Why am I here?" she asked her former professor lowly. She hadn't expected to be taken out of Dolohov's clutches so soon; the separation, she decided, could not mean anything good.

Snape's voice, flat and silky, found her. "Antonin had private matters to attend to and couldn't take you with him. Until he comes to collect I am to keep you from harm."

 _He calls him Antonin_ , Hermione realized. Death Eaters, both of them—they had grown up together, served Voldemort side by side, and were potential friends. _Dolohov trusts Snape_. The pang Hermione felt in her heart had little to do with her previously stupefied state and everything to do with her conflicting emotions; there was still a small, horribly hopeful part of her that had hoped Snape would be on her side in this, the side of the light. The facts were clear and Hermione was bereft. Snape killed Dumbledore, the man who offered to save him from the dark. Snape was a Death Eater and was spying on the Order for the Dark Lord. Snape was apparently close friends with Antonin Dolohov. Dolohov, who looked at Hermione like a starving man and took such pleasure in her torture that Hermione could have considered him hurting her an intimate act.

Now Snape was Headmaster of Hogwarts, and the room she was standing in was no doubt in his private chambers. Chambers that used to belong to Albus Dumbledore. _This is too much_.

Snape turned to her, then, as if sensing her panic. "You are safe here, Miss Granger. These chambers are spelled so you cannot leave them—you have full access to the small library across the hall and the sleeping quarters adjacent. The house elves will bring you meals but they will not respond to your commands, so do not attempt to escape. No one but Antonin knows where you are and it is imperative that you do not try to leave these rooms and explore the castle. Hogwarts isn't how you knew it. Your best bet at keeping your head atop your shoulders is to stay put and _not to bother me_ , are we clear?"

Hermione, at a loss, nodded. She couldn't do anything else.

Snape nodded with her, his expression blank. Hermione was struck then by how _familiar_ he looked—clothing black on black on black, hair falling straight just past his chin, the great bat of the dungeons with his hooked nose and sharp jaw. It was painful to realize that he was just a Death Eater and nothing about the man she used to quietly admire actually existed beyond his dreadful demeanor. "It was your potions that healed me, wasn't it?" she asked.

"Yes." That was all he would give her. He stepped away from the window and the afternoon sun fell in a sweep to the hearth. He hesitated before the heavy wooden door, not looking at her as his hand came to rest on the iron knob. "I highly suggest you continue the practice I interrupted back in your room at Dolohov Keep. Magical abilities tend to atrophy if they aren't exercised." He left, then, and the door swung closed behind him with a soft _click_.

 _He knows_ , she thought uneasily.

Back in Dolohov's home she had been practicing her magic, as best she could without a wand, anyway. She had assembled as many objects in varying sizes as she could—a soap bottle from the bathroom, a stone paperweight from the mantle, and a vase from the night table. Before the fire she had sat and concentrated on casting _Wingardium leviosa_ wandlessly as best she could. Her skills with wandless magic were abysmal, she found, almost as horrible as her attempts on a broom had been. Hermione wasn't used to being bad at anything, least of all magic.

She hadn't managed to even make the light soap bottle quiver. She remembered the way Dolohov was able to cast magic wandlessly with little effort; the man was able to call his wand silently to his hand, dim the candles with a careless sweep of his palm, and levitate a pitcher of water over to his glass while his wand sat untouched on the breakfast table. Hermione hadn't realized the raw power for what it was, and to her chagrin, she belatedly understood that his skills in that area were just another mark towards his credit to being a very accomplished wizard. _Cursebreaker and charms master_ , she reminded herself. There was little use in comparing her own skills as a teenage Hogwarts dropout with his.

Though the call of the mentioned library across the hall was almost too good to ignore, Hermione went about assembling another collection of objects to practice her wandless magic on.

The objects she picked had been Dumbledore's, she realized, but she pushed that thought far from her mind as she set the small golden trinkets down on the rug. Snape's kindness at giving her (relatively) free reign of his quarters didn't quite sit well with her; her perception of him being a sneaky, murderous dark wizard lent itself more towards locking her away in the dungeons to rot. This—being given such unrestricted access to books, a bathroom, a bed—was more fitting of her previous perception of him being the Order's spy. _What am I missing here?_ she thought forcefully as she lowered herself to the rug before the objects. _Am I wrong to assume he's loyal to Voldemort?_ An evil Death Eater wouldn't encourage a mudblood to practice magic, surely, wand or not. Even Dolohov, self-proclaimed champion of Voldemort, was currently in hiding from him. _What would Snape gain from helping Dolohov, if he too was loyal to the Dark Lord?_

Such thoughts were dangerous. The man might be deserving of her hate and mistrust, but he was right about one thing. She had gone several days without casting any magic—bonding incantation aside—and she needed to utilize her skills lest they diminish over time. Hermione closed her eyes and began pulling at the latent threads of her magical ability and attempted to cast without a wand, trying very hard not to think about what this new situation meant for her.

* * *

The castle didn't feel like home anymore, and Draco tried to swallow back the sickness he felt as he walked swiftly from the transfiguration classroom, his head down so as not to attract unwanted attention from his similarly fleeing classmates.

Aunt Bella had returned him to Hogwarts sometime after the Dark Lord left the Manor. Draco was happy to be away from it, quite plainly, but these hallowed halls were no better. Amycus Carrow's loud, berating tirade against Professor McGonagall was echoing down the stone corridor—the proud Scottish witch had been weathering Amycus's bellowing with set shoulders and a stiff back when Draco ducked out of the afternoon lesson, but he had been sharp enough to see the wistful way the Gryffindor Head of House fingered her wand. Draco had no intention of sticking around and watching Carrow hex his professor if she so much as _thought_ about disrespecting the hulking Death Eater. Carrow's twin Alecto had a less explosive temper, at least, but Draco was happy she was gone from the castle at the moment. For someone who carried the Dark Mark on his left forearm Draco didn't quite enjoy the company of his fellow Death Eaters as much as he allowed everyone to believe.

All of the Death Eaters stationed at Hogwarts were avoiding one another at the moment, given what had transpired at Malfoy Manor with the Inner Circle. As Draco hurried back to his dormitory to grab his potions textbook he tried—and failed—to conceal his limping gait.

The Dark Lord had been _very_ displeased lately.

It hadn't taken too terribly long for everyone in the Manor to realize something about Granger's interrogation hadn't gone as it should; the bedroom Draco had directed her to was empty when his mother sent him to check, and when he reported this to the Dark Lord he had been punished so brutally that even Snape's healing potions didn't take the edge off the lingering pain. The Dark Lord had searched the manner and called Dolohov (he had demanded to see Draco's Mark before cruelly stabbing the tip of his wand at it, burning his skin like fire) relentlessly over the course of several hours. He had raged. He had shouted. He had been a mad tornado of anger and had destroyed the entire west wing of the Manor in a fit of explosive magic so grandiose it had been as awesome as it had been terrible.

The look on his mother's face would have been priceless if the situation were any different.

Dolohov and Granger were gone, and for some reason Draco wasn't privy to, the Dark Lord was unable to track his volatile cursebreaker. Draco's father had informed him privately that Dolohov had always been paranoid, even when they were in Hogwarts together; it wasn't a far stretch of the imagination to assume that he had a safe house squirreled away somewhere with enough charms and wards on it to put Gringotts to shame. Aunt Bella had been uncharacteristically gleeful, now convinced that with Dolohov out of the way _she_ was now the Dark Lord's favorite. Greyback had come and gone, and after searching the Manor with his superior sense of smell, had informed everyone that Dolohov must have manipulated the wards to allow for apparition directly from the interrogation room because he didn't smell traces of either of them near any of the exits. Later, after having choked down Snape's healing potions and cried heartily on his mother's shoulder, Draco sat through a grueling occlumency lesson with his aunt.

His back ached. His knees were weak. His head was so pressurized he fancied a single tap might make it explode.

Pansy was waiting for him in the Slytherin common room. "What took you so long?" she asked, standing from a low chair and smoothing down her skirt.

"Carrow is at it again with McGonagall. I wanted to see how it panned out," he lied smoothly.

The dark-haired girl stepped into his personal space and pressed a glossy kiss to his cheek, one small hand raising up to cup his hip possessively. "Snape came through twenty minutes ago looking for you," she murmured, her face half-pressed against his chest. "Thought you should know."

Draco's arm was wrapped around her, but he felt a rush of cold dread despite her body heat. "What did he want?" Snape didn't lurk in the common room like some of the other Heads of Houses, not even before the Dark Lord's rise to power. The thought of him, now Headmaster and carrying himself like Death lurked behind every corner, sweeping into the leisure space and socializing with students was obscenely comical. Snape calling for him during class time wasn't a social call. He wanted something.

"No idea," Pansy chirped. She stepped out of his embrace and bent over to pick up her discarded bag, swinging it smartly over her shoulder and gracing him with a rare, soft smile. "I'm going down to the lake to get some study time in if you'd like to join me. I haven't seen much of you around, you know. I'm starting to miss you. Prat."

Draco struggled to smile at her gentle teasing. Pansy didn't know. He had to keep it that way. "I've missed you too," he lied again. His ability to weave little white lies was so smooth it was becoming alarming, frankly. The girls in Slytherin House used to call him Silvertongue, but that had been for _very_ different reasons. Pansy didn't know about those, either. Now he lied as easily as he breathed and it bothered him. "I'll make it up to you later, yeah? I better go find Snape before potions. He probably has information for me."

Pansy's eyebrow quirked. "I didn't know you had another task from the Dark Lord. Any chance I can know about this one?"

He swooped down and kissed her, hoping to stun her enough to kill the conversation. The starry expression in her blue eyes when he pulled away told him it worked. "Not a chance. Meet me in the Astronomy Tower tonight?"

"Of course," she conceded.

He made his escape hasty and didn't stop to shudder. He hated the Astronomy Tower and the memories of his failed attempt at killing Dumbledore it brought back—it was a shame, then, that it was Pansy's favorite place in the castle. The gorgeous pureblood girl didn't know what happened there, but she thought the views of the stars romantic, and he had been instructed by his mother to court her any way she pleased. Keeping his mother happy had become a full-time job, lately. He felt he owed her.

The memory of her crying, heartbroken and overcome, when he failed his task from the Dark Lord and watched as Lucius was punished ate at him like cancer. When he was a boy, he had wanted nothing more than to make his father proud. Now as a young man all he wanted was to protect his mother and make her happy. _If that means marrying Parkinson, so be it_ , he thought grimly.

Potions book in tow, Draco hurried to the Headmaster's office, hoping against all odds that he could catch his brooding godfather before the start of his last class of the day. Snape didn't teach anymore and Draco found himself almost missing it—Slughorn was a decent potioneer, of course, but he lacked the raw brilliance Snape seemed to have for the subject. Snape had been adequate the single year he had taught Defense Against the Dark Arts, a post that the Carrows had bastardized it into a fully-fledged Dark Arts course. Draco suspected that, for all of Snape's mastery of the Dark Arts, there was something lacking in his instruction against it. Too seduced by the dark, Draco thought. The only instructor that even came close to being good at teaching Defense had been a Death Eater—Barty Crouch Jr. disguised as Moody—but the werewolf Lupin had been a close second. Potions, on the other hand, would never have a more thorough, knowledgeable professor than Snape.

Snape was at the Headmaster's desk when Draco walked in.

"Pansy said you came knocking," Draco began, dropping without invitation into the chair across the wide desk. Draco had never entered the Headmaster's office during Dumbledore's tenure, but the boy strongly suspected that the many portraits gracing the walls hadn't been covered with white tarps when Dumbledore occupied the space; the subjects in the paintings must be previous headmasters of Hogwarts. Curious, then, that Snape didn't want to look at them. His godfather was pouring over a book large enough to cause posture damage if one tried to hold it—something about the sight reminded Draco disturbingly of Granger. _Don't think about her_ , he thought quickly.

Snape dropped his quill and looked up with a scowl. "I have something to ask of you, Draco."

Draco nodded, suddenly unsure. Snape was not a man who _asked_ ; he took, and then apologized after. Draco still remembered his introduction into Occlumency as if it were yesterday. Aunt Bella, believe it or not, was much gentler than the Hogwarts potions master. "What do you need?"

Snape's eyes were twin pools of fathomless black boring unblinkingly into his. If it hadn't been for his rough instruction in the art of Legilimency Draco wouldn't have noticed the soft prickle in his thoughts that indicated Snape was searching them. For all of the wizard's brutality in formal lessons he could be stunningly gentle in action. "I have the Granger girl in my sitting room, Draco, and I need you to go back to the Manor and steal her wand."

It was a good thing, then, that Snape hadn't offered him any tea. For sure, Draco would have spat it all over the Headmaster's desk if he had.

* * *

 **A/N: For everyone who guessed Snape and Draco were going to team up at some point, congratulations, you were right! They will be main characters in this story alongside Dolohov and Hermione. I look forward to exploring their almost-familial relationship dynamic and bringing back big-brother-Thorfinn at some point. Think the Death Eater's are as loyal to Voldemort as they say they are?**

 **Also, I think Pansy is a character I can have some fun with. In the books she was a pureblood, stuck-up bully who clung to Draco, not very likeable. I have the urge to flesh out her character a little bit more...**

 **More Hermione/Dolohov interaction coming up in future chapters, not to worry! Up Next: Dolohov visits his father for information about breaking the unwanted blood bond. Hermione, forever in his thoughts, is driving him mad (in the best, lustiest way).**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: see notes at the bottom. Enjoy!**

* * *

Antonin remembered meeting Tom Riddle as clearly as he remembered the touch of his mother's hands; always fascinated by the details, even as a young child, he had obsessed over the way Kira's slim fingers curved around his when she led him by the hand through Diagon Alley or the grounds of the Keep. Narrow palms, delicate knuckles, lily-white flesh that felt as soft as feather down against his own rougher calluses—her touch was a balm against his father's roaring temper. Antonin stopped holding his mother's hand when he was a teenager, but shortly after his sixteenth birthday, he had begun holding Tom's.

What strong, deceptively pretty hands they had been.

It had been early July, and Knockturn Alley was a humid, shadowed crevice that offered no respite from the pressing summer heat despite the darkness lurking at every doorway. There was no coolness in those shadows, he remembered. Fresh from his sixth year at Hogwarts and eager to escape his father's increasing bouts of worrying temper at the Keep, Antonin had crept away and sought refuge with the dregs of wizarding society in Britain's most notorious hub of dark magic. Antonin was a lanky specter with shifting eyes and whip-snap hips as he swiveled around the lurking stall keepers and corner-side solicitors. _Oh what it had been, to be young_ _and fresh and wanting_.

Antonin wanted something to occupy his time away from home that summer and Borgin & Burkes had been hiring.

With his height and unsettling penchant for scowling—the dark expression hadn't been refined, then, but it had done the trick—Antonin hadn't had any trouble convincing the shopkeeper he was a Hogwarts graduate and up-and-coming cursebreaker. His father's rigorous instruction in the Dark Arts had come in handy in escaping him in what had become a disastrous twist of fate. For weeks after, Antonin made more money than he knew what to do with hunched over a leaning metal table in the back of the shop, appraising the dark objects that came through with a discerning eye and his skill for unravelling nasty charms. Tom Riddle and _his_ nasty charm, all six-foot-two of him, had caught Antonin's attention like a warning bell the moment the odd man entered the store and filled the small, dank space with his burning, unavoidable fire.

Antonin knew something special when he saw it.

Apparently, so had Tom.

By the start of his seventh year, Antonin was a regular fixture at Tom Riddle's home in Little Hangleton (a structure that, years later, Antonin would come to understand belonged to Tom's dead father, a Muggle, and Antonin envied Tom's patricide). Antonin's father found out where he spent all his time and punished him—the scars on his hands had taken forever to close after _that_ particular lashing—but any lingering hesitance Antonin might have felt was banished by the way Tom touched him. Fingers in his hair, palms down his back, one slim knee brushing his…Antonin was touch-starved. His mother was in France. His father only touched him to hurt him. Tom touched Antonin like he loved him, and the teenager fell head-over-heels in his characteristically obsessive fashion with the man who finally treated him like a favored son. As Antonin grew closer to Tom, Aleksei pulled further away from Antonin.

 _I was in school with the Riddle boy!_ Aleksei had informed Antonin when he came home, begrudgingly, for holiday break. _There is something wrong with him and I don't want you dabbling in whatever darkness he carries_ , his father had commanded. _I won't have my only son tampering with magic like that._

 _Magic like_ you _taught me?_ Antonin had shouted back. Aleksei didn't trust Tom. Hated him, then after, for stealing his child _. As if the charms you drilled into my head are any better!_ Aleksei had attended Hogwarts instead of Durmstrang—even his paternal grandfather, a well-known Russian mage, had been curiously hypocritical about dark magic. The inclusion of it on Durmstrang's academic calendar had prevented it from being a school the Dolohov family submitted to.

Antonin had returned to Hogwarts, made plans for taking the Dark Mark the summer after he graduated, and Aleksei fell deeper into grief-driven madness, convinced against reason he had lost his son to the Dark. Curious, Antonin would later reflect, for a man who spent the better part of his life reveling in the shadows himself.

Kira, Antonin's beloved mother with her downy-soft hands, was murdered in the woods outside of Dolohov Keep just before the turn of the seasons, winter to spring. Antonin—or the aurors, for that matter—could never prove Aleksei had been the culprit. But Antonin knew. Antonin knew his father killed her.

His father's insistence that a man— _tall, handsome, and with sharp blue eyes_ —had been seen lurking around the Keep just before Kira's murder had fallen on deaf ears. Tom wouldn't have taken his mother from him, Antonin knew. Tom loved him. Tom had soft hands.

Antonin wondered what his father's hands felt like, after all this time.

 _Only one way to find out_ , Antonin assured himself.

Retreating from the haunting memories of the past, Antonin raised his fist and knocked on the sturdy door, barely recognizing the structure around it as what had been the first home he ever knew. The library had burned down by the mob of Muggles when he was a boy, but the residence attached to it had survived relatively unscathed. Protective charms, Antonin suspected. His father had likely re-cast them when he returned here after Kira's death.

Antonin felt an awful coil of anxiety settle in his gut as he waited for his father to answer the door. Even after all this time, he still felt as starved for affection and approval as he did that summer he met Tom.

The knob turned with a clatter, and the door eased open to reveal a painfully familiar face.

* * *

Hermione was restless.

One of the golden trinkets—a long, spire-like compass that floated solidly in what looked to be a perfect glass sphere—had been levitating half a foot off the floor quite steadily for the last twelve minutes. Hermione's concentration had been absolute when she started; she had been determined past reason to cast _Wingardium leviosa_ wandlessly for the first time, all odds be damned. Her magical ability was as precious to her as her life, and she was desperate to reaffirm that she was still a witch after everything that happened at Malfoy Manor. The surge of hot, fluid vindication that flushed her cheeks had been like a hit of the most marvelous drug the second the golden compass had jerked readily off the floor after a few failed attempts, settling comfortably mid-air as if it belonged there under her careful, wandless casting. She had no wand and the vile Mudblood scar on her forearm throbbed, but she cast magic as easily as any pureblood witch. _They can never take this from me_ , she thought fiercely.

The novelty of the feeling faded quickly.

She had tried doing a variety of exercises with the compass before moving on to the larger, heavier items—she could make it bounce, spin, even dance in complicated swirls around her body, out of her sight. Her concentration had to be unwavering to prevent it from faltering, but she could manage it.

Two minutes in and the compass started to sag mid-air.

Ten minutes in and she could barely oscillate it up and down.

Now at twelve the compass couldn't move at all lest her concentration shatter and the object fall to the floor.

For the first time in her life, Hermione found herself unable to concentrate on controlling her magic.

Her mind, unbeknownst to her, was frantically stretching hundreds of miles to the east.

She couldn't stop thinking about _him_.

Dolohov had become a shadow she couldn't shake, and recollections of his smooth voice and the efficient way his hands had moved over his breakfast plate kept flashing into her mind's eye without her conscious consent. She hated using the word to describe anything she felt about the awful wizard, but _attraction_ was an accurate descriptor of what she felt. Like magnets. Her thoughts were pulled to him always, every minute, and nothing that she occupied her mind with was as all-encompassing as he was. She was terrified of him. She hated him. She was drawn to him against her better nature, no doubt a side effect of the horrible bond that now stretched thin between them.

She allowed the glass-kept compass to drop and woodenly rose to her feet. High noon had faded into a cloudy early evening, and when Hermione peered out the window to the familiar grounds below she recognized the first beginnings of winter touching at the mountaintops in the distance. _It must be November now_ , she thought to herself blankly, staring unseeingly at the pale line of the milky horizon. It would rain soon. Her fingers tensed over the latch—the window wouldn't open.

Before she could fall too deeply into her close pit of melancholy, new purpose gripped her. _Time to explore!_

Severus Snape's quarters—she tried very, very hard not to think of them as Dumbledore's—were very cozy. The dark carpet in the hallway muffled her footsteps when she left the sitting room, and soon she found that most doors along the narrow, curving corridor were firmly locked. The library (it had been a sight for sore eyes, and _oh gods_ were hers sore), the bathroom, and a spare bedroom obviously hastily-prepared by house elves opened at her touch, but others, rooms she suspected belonged to her brooding former professor, didn't even have a doorknob. Hermione's eyebrows raised into her hair at this evidence of Snape's paranoia, unable to decide if she should take it as a compliment to her magical ability or not that he saw it necessary to remove even the remote possibility of her going where she wasn't supposed to.

At the end of the hallway, lurking like a silent sentinel, was the door that would surely lead her to the back end of the Headmaster's office; though she hadn't been in Dumbledore's sanctuary as often as Harry had, there had been a few notable occasions that gave her the experience necessary to recognize that particular door from the inside. It was tall, wide, and curved to a stylish point in what looked like stained cherry wood. The iron slats supporting the hinge were dotted with golden screws. The metal knob was curved in the shape of a flying phoenix, the image making her heart ache.

The force field around the door wouldn't even allow her to touch it, shocking her fingertips horribly whenever she tried.

Hermione sucked at her fingertips—that shock had been bloody _painful_ —and returned to the library she had spotted across from the sitting room. She knew the collection there had probably been purged of anything Snape didn't want her to see, but if nothing else, it could help her pass the time until dinner. She dreaded Snape's return. _If_ he would return.

He wouldn't allow her escape any more than Dolohov would have and it would be unwise to attack him physically if he came back, even in a desperate bid for his wand; Hogwarts was Death Eater territory now, and the terrorized pureblooded students residing here wouldn't quite have sympathy for her if she came across them in an attempt to flee from the front gate. She would wait, even if the very idea of doing so made her skin crawl.

When she sank into an armchair with a book on the wizarding history of the far east she tried, once again, not to think about the wizard she was tied to, a steady pulse she couldn't identify as her own throbbing at the base of her skull in time to what she highly suspected was Dolohov's draconian heart.

* * *

Snape was pleased with his godson, all things considered.

The boy had nearly swallowed his tongue when the professor voiced his request—the expression of naked shock on the pale boy's face made him look years younger, and something akin to affection bloomed in Snape's rotten heart at the sight. Before he could discard the soppy, familial notion he was forcibly reminded of the tiny blond toddler Draco had been so many years before, a bright smile lighting his pudgy cheeks as he yanked insistently on the hem of his godfather's black robes. Severus would rather pickle his own eyes than ever give voice to his quiet fondness for the Malfoy brat, but there it was, warming at the base of his spine to see Draco so gobsmacked. _There is still so much I can teach you_ , Snape had thought quietly. _The dark hasn't truly taken you yet_.

Once the initial shock was over, Draco's face had smoothed into its usual stone mask, a look he probably practiced with Snape's own countenance in mind. The boy was much better at hiding his emotions at school than he was at home, Snape was pleased to note. _Why would you want Granger's wand? Surely you don't intend on giving it back to her,_ Draco had remarked quietly. Draco was a bright boy who saw far more than what people gave him credit for; Snape had known from the moment he asked the boy that Draco would put the pieces of the puzzle together. This was the closest thing to solid proof Draco would ever get that his godfather wasn't loyal to Voldemort, a small hope the boy had carried in his mind like a dying torch since that fateful day in the Astronomy Tower. Snape knew, now, what Draco had thought of the Granger girl's torture, having seen it in his thoughts. Snape was certain he could trust Draco with this task.

Snape had simply looked at Draco and said gently, _You don't have to pretend around me, boy._

The meeting had wrapped up rather quickly after that, and in minutes, an Unbreakable Vow bound the pair to ensure that Snape's request remained a secret. Snape had graced Draco with enough trust not to search his thoughts again, but there was an undercurrent of a heavy threat that colored Snape's voice when he bid his godson a good afternoon. Draco left for his potion's class fifteen minutes late with a note clutched in his palm excusing him for his tardiness—and a plan, hard and dreadful, forming in his mind to steal the mudblood's wand. Countless questions had twisted in a knot but he had known better than to ask Snape. Snape didn't need to be a Legimens to know that, at least.

Snape was pleased. No shouting, no shattered glass, no brandishing wands and declarations of betrayal against the Dark Cause. Snape had been right in his assessment of the youngest Malfoy, and Draco had displayed incredible maturity in the face of what should have been grounds to call the Dark Lord to the castle, right then, and accuse Snape of assisting the Order of the Phoenix. The gamble had paid off and Snape could rest easy.

Snape rose to his feet, wincing at the sharp crack of his knees as he drew to his full height. _Perhaps resting easy is an overstatement_ , he mused unhappily as he approached the pointed door leading to his personal chambers. The Granger girl lurked somewhere beyond, no doubt stirring trouble against his strict orders. Snape dearly hoped he wouldn't have to wrestle her bodily to the floor and pour Sleeping Draught down her unwilling throat to avoid her questions.

He could just stun her again, but working off latent aggression was so much more satisfying when done with one's bare hands. Oh, if the Dark Lord could have heard that thought…it must have been his half-blood upbringing speaking. Lucius, for example, would be scandalized at the notion of physically restraining someone when a wand was readily available. Snape had no such qualms. His hands itched to wrap around a slim throat and squeeze, the frustrations of the day manifesting as a painful stiffness in his muscles as he stalked into his rooms.

* * *

It was a quarter to nine and Snape wanted to kill her.

" _Let me go_!" Hermione hissed, thrashing against the spelled ropes that trussed her like a freshly slain doe on the hearth in his personal library. That terrible tangle of curls she called hair fell in her face and snarled down her shoulders as she wriggled to no avail, her sunken cheeks flushed with anger as she did her best impression of a spitting cat. "I can't _believe_ —"

Snape was sitting comfortably in the armchair he so rudely forced her to vacate, a glass of firewhiskey in his hand and a book in the other. Being Headmaster was so _tiring_. "Miss Granger, if you insist on making such animalistic noises I will silence you permanently, are we clear?" he drawled, lazily swirling his glass and ignoring her yelps of frustration. "I told you what would happen if you tried to ask the house elves for help, did I not? You have disobeyed me."

Hermione paused restlessly in her thrashing and peered over at the man, her mouth dropped in disbelief at her former professor. From her vantage point on her side she could see the sharp line of his jaw half-obscured by the open book hovering above his lap. "Did you honestly expect me to not _try_?" she sputtered.

The book snapped shut with a sharp flick of his wand and Hermione gulped when Severus leaned down to get a better look at her, his elbows settling atop his knees as he took a pull from his drink. "I expected you to be smarter than this and appreciate the opportunity you've been given here."

The look on the girl's face was uncannily similar to the indignant glare Antonin's owl Ares had cast him when he tossed the damn bird out the window. _Perhaps this bond between them has stronger basis than I assumed_ , Snape mused. Hermione's voice was a knife cutting through his train of thought before he could go any further. "Is that what passes for _smart_ these days?" she spat, holding herself half-upright on a cocked elbow. The position was painful with her hands bound so tightly behind her back, but Snape silently commended her for her fortitude. "Blindly following orders when you know you're doing the wrong thing? Willfully hurting others? Subjecting yourself to the orders of a tyrant because you're too small-minded to think for yourself?"

Snape made the slow, conscious decision to slide his wand back into his sleeve. He wanted to curse her more than he wanted his next breath, but if he did, Antonin would find a way to have his head on a pike.

Granger's tirade continued. Snape marveled over how much she was able to say before stopping for breath, his hands clenching tightly in effort to calm his anger towards her. "Hogwarts has gone to the dogs, Professor, with you at the helm—" _Hands off your wand, Severus, don't hurt her_ "—which isn't a surprise given your history, you filthy traitor—" _You promised Antonin you would take care of the girl, she'll tire soon enough_ "—and how dare you stand where he once stood, Severus Snape, Albus Dumbledore was so much more of a man than you'll ever be—" _Deep breaths. Deep. Fucking. Breaths._ "—and you should be ashamed! You're a disgusting Death Eater and I was a fool to think otherwise! You—"

" _Enough_."

Snape's command for her silence was punctuated with a sharp jab of his wand and a burst of searing magic; in a movement as graceful as it was quick, Snape silenced the girl before flinging his empty glass away onto a nearby hutch. He had spent decades honing his own volatile temper, but one man could only take so much. His joints ached. His head pounded. He was worried about Draco, and Antonin, and losing the whole damn war—this girl was just one more responsibility he didn't want to have to handle.

Granger, momentarily stunned to discover she was unable to make a single sound, resumed her furious thrashing on the rug at his feet. She was a study in reckless motion—had she been much younger, Snape would have classified her actions as a tantrum. He tried not to sympathize too much with her. "Your mouth is getting away from you, girl," he warned, the full force of his sneer directed at her as he spoke. "You know nothing. _Nothing_. This little incident is simple proof that you are as incapable as you are disrespectful—I have been hospitable since your arrival, have I not? You have full access to a bed, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a goddamn _library_. Do you truly understand where you are, Miss Granger?"

He eased to his knees on the floor beside her and threaded a pale hand through her mop of hair, curling his fingers near her scalp and wrenching her face towards his own. The back of her neck was damp with terrified sweat against his palm. Her eyes, whiskey brown and glassy with tears, stared fearfully into his under a worried brow. "I am a Death Eater," Snape whispered, "just like the man you are bonded to. In this society you are nothing, lower than dirt—a _Mudblood_. I've seen that carving on your arm, girl, when it was fresh and aching. Mudbloods that come across Bellatrix often meet their end after weeks of constant torture. Is that what you want? For me to cast you out of the castle and away from my kindness, directly into the arms of every depraved wizard from here to France that wishes to defile you and everything you represent to them?" Hermione was crying freely, now, her sobs silent as she shook in the clutch of the spelled rope. Sensing her surrender, Snape flicked his wand for a final time and the ropes disappeared. Even physically free the girl didn't dare move away from him.

Snape pressed closer, crowding her space. He had to make her _understand_. "I am giving you more than you deserve," he purred. "Antonin has been exceedingly kind to you, Miss Granger, giving you to me temporarily like this. Would you prefer a holding cell instead? Perhaps to be changed up in the dungeons where you're least likely to do what I've warned you not to?"

She shook her head frantically, her silent gasps for breath wracking her small frame. "Of course you don't," Snape smiled. "Here's what you're going to do: when I let go of you, you will go to the bathroom, shower, change, and go straight to bed. Tomorrow you will not be able to leave the room I have allotted for your use. The house elves will not bring you meals—I will. Breakfast will be laid by your bedside at six and dinner at five. If you cannot abide by the simple rules I have set for you then I will take away the freedoms you have been privileged with."

Granger nodded, her eyes scrunching shut, sobbing in earnest against his hand in her hair. His touch was soft, now. He let go slowly and painfully rose to his feet, dropping smoothly back into the armchair a few feet away. "Off you go," he breathed.

When the girl was gone, Snape summoned his empty glass and refilled it. He couldn't bring himself to feel guilty about how roughly he treated her—the girl was in grave danger, and currently, he was the only thing standing between her and a certain, painful death. She didn't know any better, he knew, so it wasn't her fault that she wasn't _grateful_. She didn't know his true loyalties, or his plans, or his involvement with Draco. She was young and scared. Formerly tortured. Imprisoned. Hated by a society that she had a right to participate in, a society that demanded her death for the nonsense crime of "stealing" magic from a pureblood.

Despite it all, he was furious.

Such was his lot, he decided. The fight would continue just under his nose, and everyone on the battlefield would be none the wiser that his hands held puppet strings. After everything was done he could end it and be with Lily in death.

He sank further into his chair and took another drink.

* * *

Under the spray of the shower's tap Hermione smiled.

Her plan had worked, and Snape had been none the wiser. The house elf—a portly creature named Herb—remembered her from her time at Hogwarts. Coincidentally, Herb had been a former fixture at Malfoy Manner before Voldemort banished the elves from the premises, and most fortuitously, had been a close companion of Dobby.

Hermione had been perched on the edge of the armchair with Herb's long fingers clutched in hers when Snape blasted in the library, his pace hastened by the hushed sound of her voice through the closed door. _Thank you so much_ , Hermione had implored the elf, and with a smile, Herb had disappeared from the room with a definitive snap.

 _You're trying to escape me?_ Snape had snarled furiously at her.

Hermione had been surprised by his entrance but thought quickly—plastering a fearful expression on her face, she responded with a little white lie: _Yes_.

Hermione may have lost this particular battle, but she was sure she could still win the war.

* * *

 **A/N: I'm sorry for the late update! I've been basking in my last few days of holiday break before I return to my last semester of university in the next few days. I graduate in May, y'all! Woo!**

 **The plot continues to thicken. So we have Draco planning to steal Hermione's wand, Antonin off in Russia visiting his father for information about the bond, and Hermione has a few tricks up her sleeve regarding the Hogwarts elves. Poor Severus, all caught in the middle...**

 **From here on the chapters might start getting a little longer as the story continues to unravel. Harry and Ron have to make an appearance sometime, I reckon. Thank you so much for everyone who has kept reading and has given me feedback, I thrive on your love! Take care and Happy Belated New Year xx**


	10. Chapter 10

Antonin had expected many things to happen upon his reunion with his father, but this was a possibility he hadn't even _considered_ entertaining.

Aleksei Dolohov had pulled his son inside and sat him at the kitchen table, and, as if this were a mere social call that held a weekly appointment, the older man who looked to be Antonin's twin split from him by the passage of time made tea. _Tea_. Such a British thing to do, Antonin thought, but old habits from years abroad died hard. The scars on Antonin's palms itched like hellfire. A serene portrait of Kira graced the wall above the stovetop, her painted visage splattered with grease from frequent frying and yellowed at the bottom. Aleksei, wearing a benign housecoat and trousers that resembled track pants taken from a Muggle shop, puttered around the kitchen with such ease Antonin found himself pinching at his own arms to ascertain he wasn't dreaming. His father hadn't said a single word to him when he opened the front door—Antonin, by contrast, had spoken in a small voice that wouldn't have been out of place coming from the mouth of his teenaged self. " _Hi, dad_ ," he had mumbled, easily slipping into his mother tongue at the sight of his father. Aleksei's mirror-dark eyes had appraised him top to bottom before pulling the door open with a sturdy hand and impatiently ushering him over the threshold. The firm clap of his palm—familiar but _not_ —against his shoulder as he passed into the entry foyer had been a shock to Antonin's system. Familiar magic caressed at his spine as he was led into the nearby kitchen; for all of his own brilliance, much of Antonin's favorite wards had been ripped directly from his father's playbook. The wards felt like home, as bastardized as that idea seemed.

"I felt you creeping up the drive," Aleksei remarked casually from his spot the sink, his back turned on his son as he prepared the pot. "Haven't touched my wand in months but the magic never lies. Spine lit up like Christmas and I'd know you anywhere, Antonin. Even after all this time." Before Antonin could question the curious implication of that statement, his father continued. "I can smell _it_ on you like hellfire stink, too. Got yourself a witch? Come to ask for some goddamn blessing?"

It was a good thing the tea was not yet served, because Antonin was sure he would have spat it all over the tabletop at the mere suggestion. He had hoped to approach the reason for his visit delicately; that hope was shot out of the water, now, and all the fish laid dead on the riverbank. Not a subtle man, his father, despite his loving carefulness for how he cast his wards. "I've missed your ability to cut to the heart of the matter," Antonin tried. A thousand other statements were aching to jump off his tongue instead, and at the forefront of which was the claim _she's not my witch_. Another part of him, the damnable part that was irrevocably tied to the troublesome witch in question, rankled at the suggestion that she didn't belong to him. _You're such a greedy little thing, aren't you?_ Tom had once teased him. _I am_ , Antonin had acquiesced. He knew his nature. Fighting his possessiveness was futile, but he'd try regardless.

Water set to boiling in the pot and mugs laid expectantly on the counter, Aleksei turned to him. "Disappointing boy," his father seethed, the sudden flare of his anger too familiar to be surprising. "You come to me after nearly _two decades_ and this is what you shit all over my doorstep? Not an apology, not an acknowledgment I was right—just this. You're saddled with a witch and you've come to demand my help getting rid of her." The fact that his father was able to sense his blood bond didn't surprise him a single bit, but hearing it laid out so plainly was a shock he hadn't been expecting.

Twin fires of anger and indignation burned in Antonin's chest alongside something else closer to the sharp tang of humiliation. Deliberately, Antonin left his wand sheathed in his sleeve. He knew that if he considered taking it out for even a moment he would complete his teenaged fantasy of patricide and end his father's life with a single incantation, Aleksei's proprietary wards be damned. Antonin would gleefully die at their behest just for the few sweet seconds of satisfaction the murder would bring him. Words that he could have said stuck to the roof of his mouth like curdled milk and he swallowed them back with great effort. Now was not the time to bring up past hurts. "You've spoken too soon, father. You _were_ right, at least about one thing."

Aleksei's face was a curious picture in the dull afternoon light spilling in from the window over the sink—the planes and hollows of his expression seemed years younger for just a moment, an in the horrible shadow of the dying day Antonin realized he looked more and more like his father with each passing year. A single, dark brow on Aleksei's angular face rose in question, the wrinkles around his eyes softened in the hanging moment. "I am right about many things. Which one have you belatedly come to realize?"

Antonin's eyes met his father's, and for a heartbeat the two men could have resembled brothers in that small kitchen, both of their mouths set with distaste for the general company of the other. Kira's portrait above the stove watched the pair with something like fondness gracing her features. Though not as skillful a rendition as the portraits back at the Keep—those portraits were so imbued with the spirits of their subjects they could talk and interact with the occupants of the house—Kira's mouth curved in the approximation of a smile at seeing the two men glaring at one another over the tabletop. Perhaps in heaven Kira looked upon the scene with the same loving recognition. "Being tied to a witch you have no true want to be with is a particular brand of hell that perhaps no other situation can match. There are no masters worse than a scorned woman."

"Your woman is scorned deep, I can feel it," Aleksei confessed. "I can sense the bond between the two of you. Your side is an open wound. She's fighting her end. I can tell."

Antonin's hands clenched to fists on the tabletop. Aleksei poured tea. "Can you help me sever the tie?" he asked quietly. His father owed him nothing and liked him even less—the request was a last folly, a last call to the heavens to right this monstrous wrong that now bound him to a girl nearly two decades his junior. Somewhere in the halls of Hogwarts his witch was hungry, tired, and extremely bored. He could feel her like he could feel the mug's humid heat when his father passed him the filled cup. With a horrible jolt of unease he realized he didn't know which urge was worse—the desire to kill her with his bare hands or his blood-ward-desire to return to her side.

"My advice?" his father started, settling in the chair across from Antonin's. "Not even your beloved _Dark Lord_ can get you out of this one, Antonin. Take the girl and run."

Not what he wanted to hear, but he would take the answer for now. Severus had his witch and the tight coils of his father's madness were loose at the moment; for a little while, at least, Antonin had all the time in the world to wear his father down and secure his assistance in this matter. Perhaps as a last favor of gratitude Antonin might even let his father live after everything was said and done.

Kira's portrait watched father and son as they took their tea and a heavy silence lapsed around the table. Years stretched between them. Kira. Tom Riddle. Azkaban. Both parties knew the peace wouldn't be kept for much longer.

It never had, with those two.

* * *

In the hours that followed Snape's dismissal of her—the shower had been too short and the door of her appointed bedroom had snapped shut behind her so decisively it was startling—Hermione almost wished to be back in the halls of Dolohov Keep. Hermione Granger didn't _do_ boredom. As a child she had always found a plethora of ways to entertain herself when the other children refused to engage with her, too put off by her bossy attitude to extend playground friendship. Accidental magic had become intent magic by the time she was ten, and she learned she could amuse herself for hours causing flower petals to bloom and die at will in those sunrise years of her magical awakening. As her control developed at Hogwarts she was no longer able to willfully cast such magic without her wand, but boredom was a far memory when you were a _witch_ ; there had been so much to learn and experience that the sting of being lonely was nearly dulled to an occasional bite. Even in the tent with Harry and Ron there were always things to do, or rather, things to _worry_ about. It was amazing what having choices could do for one's state of mind.

Here, locked in Snape's guest room, the only choice afforded to Hermione was whether to sleep or not.

 _I think I like Dolohov's methods of torture better_ , Hermione decided with a flutter of absurdity, struck by how insane the notion was as quickly as she thought it. _You can't be bored when you're writhing in pain!_ Boredom was torture of the worst sort for a mind like Hermione's, and by her count (as close as it could get without a nearby clock or _Tempus_ charm) it had only been a handful of hours since Snape let her up off the library's rug. Even the late hour did nothing to quell the bubbling energy that dragged Hermione from sleep and lit her aflame with that horrible emotion again— _hope_.

That house elf could help change everything.

Pacing the small space was a familiar comfort, and as Hermione stepped around the room in looping circles she considered how lucky she had gotten earlier in the evening when Herb had popped into the library with a sharp crack, a steaming tea set hovering above his outstretched hand as he waddled over to a low side table. " _Hello Miss!"_ he had chirped, his wrinkled jowls wobbling merrily as he bounced over to present a platter of biscuits. Hermione nearly fell out of her chair with shock at the sight of the good-humored elf.

" _Hello_ ," she had greeted cautiously, her book falling easily from her lap as she moved to stand in front of the fire. Her palms, now sweating at this turn of events, pressed uneasily to her thighs as the elf went about serving her. Snape's warning not to engage with the elves was fresh in her mind, but when the elf turned to look at her, something about those Coke-bottle green eyes had reminded her so painfully of Dobby it nearly hurt to breathe. " _What's your name_?"

" _I is Herb!_ " the elf exclaimed, its small chest puffing with pride under the pristine white wrap it wore. There, just off to the side, was an intricately stitched crest of Hogwarts. " _I serve the Master of Hogwarts and now I serve Young Miss. Master wants Herb to care for Miss, so Herb makes sure Miss has enough to eat._ " Impatiently and with a pushiness that reminded Hermione uncannily of Mrs. Weasley, the elf had Hermione settled with a cuppa and a saucer of treats before she could even think to politely decline.

Hermione sat back on the armchair, perching uncertainly as she brought the cup to her dry lips. She had to think of something fast—she couldn't let the elf leave, not yet, not when he was talkative and seemingly receptive to her questions. "Do you know why I'm here, Herb?" Surely a caretaker of the castle she had called home for six years would recognize one of its charges—that's what she had been, hadn't she?

The elf clasped his fingers behind his back and rocked back on his heels, its eyes narrowing as she took a tentative bite of one of the biscuits. The sweet flavor was almost more than she could take after so many months of being deprived; discretely and hoping the elf couldn't see, she spat the wad of chewed treat into her teacup as she pretended to take another sip. "You is Hermione Granger," the elf observed, his voice solemn. "I remember Young Miss, trying to give elves clothes. Herb heard tales of Young Miss. Dobby was quite fond."

A plan began forming before Hermione's eyes. She realized the opportunity and took it, Snape's warnings about the elves be damned.

All it had taken was a few soft words and Herb had agreed—by the morning Herb would travel to Shell Cottage where Bill and Fleur were hiding out the war, and somehow, some way, they would try and get word to Fred and George about Hermione's whereabouts. From there— _Potterwatch_. Hopefully Harry and Ron were still keeping an ear out for the secret podcast and would get the news that she was alive and being kept at Hogwarts. With any luck a speedy rescue was just days away.

Under no circumstance did Hermione wish to spend her days trapped in this small bedroom waiting for Dolohov to return to kill her.

Even emboldened by her game of risk, Hermione found herself exhausted from pacing around the small room in the dark. She stepped carefully towards the bed and hoisted herself onto it; this bed was even harder than the last, and the fading memory of Dolohov's private quarters haunted her. His bed had been so sinfully soft and the sheets had smelled divine—it was a pity to think that her last comfortable rest would ultimately happen in the bed of a Death Eater. Feeling uncharacteristically fatalistic after the emotionally trying day, Hermione attempted to relax and let sleep take her.

Sleep was minutes away and Hermione welcomed oblivion like an old friend. All that thrashing she had done at Snape's feet had pulled uncomfortably at her weakened muscles and chafed horribly on her carved arm; in those few minutes of humiliation Hermione had no difficulty in summoning a quick flow of false tears, intent on selling her indignant anger to cover up the secret pleasure she had gotten from getting the elf to agree to help her. It had been paramount that Snape not have any reason to dip into her thoughts—if he thought her conversation with the elf was about escaping he wouldn't bother, but if he suspected she wasn't telling the truth, she wouldn't be able to hold him out of her thoughts as she had Dolohov. Something in her former professor's black eyes told her she was in the presence of a master Legimens, and if he tried, he would know. He would know _everything_.

Sleep was as easy as dying. Her last conscious thoughts were of purple flame.

* * *

The Department of Mysteries was a labyrinth.

She hadn't returned to those secret halls since that one time near the end of her fifth year, but those short hours she spent among the most experimental of magical practice had been burned into her mind like a cattle brand. No amount of Sleeping Draught or _Obliviate_ would ever erase the sensory experience of running through the corridors with wild abandon, her heart a war drum in her chest as she ran from Voldemort's faithful, one particular follower in particular. The halls had been paneled in white-veined black marble that was cool to the touch and her hands fogged the glassy surface whenever she reached out to steady herself as she whirled quickly around sharp corners. The lights embedded in dark wall sconces cast an ethereal green glow that Hermione wasn't entirely convinced was just for atmospheric effect; in one room there had been a Sun Spire, and those light-sensitive instruments were the substance of magical myth as far as she had been aware. The air was cold, dry, and the curious static that clung to her skin and electrified her nerves gave her the impression that heavy enchantments permeated the very air she breathed. Some sights in those many rooms would never leave her, and others were so far beyond her realm of understanding that she wouldn't have been able to describe them for lack of vocabulary necessary to do so.

This floor was curiously warm beneath her feet. She ran the corridors barefoot, this time.

Even knowing it was a dream didn't make it easier to stomach.

The first time she had a nightmare about the Department of Mysteries it had been days after she had woken from her magically-induced coma after Dolohov's initial attack; Madam Pomfrey had been nearly beside herself when Hermione jerked awake in a flood of tears and shouts, the traumatic experience too much for her young mind to fully process. There had been potions and charms and many weeks of monitoring, but the disturbing dreams continued to haunt her for months after the ordeal was over.

Hermione had been so close to death, then, that the Reaper Himself practically stalked her every breath.

The first dream had been quick and dirty, and when she flailed herself into the waking world the scar on her chest was aching as if cast fresh. Dolohov had been a looming demon who breathed purple flame, and as soon as he caught her, she burned and burned and burned. It had taken hours for Madam Pomfrey to calm her down completely.

 _This_ dream was different.

She wasn't in her trainers and jeans, for one—the nightgown that flapped around her calves was unmistakably the one Snape had directed she change into after her shower. Her hair was loose and damp, her body was weak, and she had no wand; there would be no fighting, this time, only chase and defeat. These nightmares _always_ ended in defeat. A foreign thought lanced through her mind as she ran from her unseen pursuer, honeyed and poison: _would defeat really be so bad?_ Even in this dream she dragged with tiredness, her muscles tight from so many months on the run. The thought of stopping for breath was almost as sweet as the thought of getting to safety.

She couldn't hear him running behind her, but she could feel him. A gentle pull at the back of her skull was telling her he was close.

Close enough to _touch_.

A hand suddenly wound itself in her thick mane of hair just as she turned to whip around another corner, a physical manifestation of the mental bond she couldn't seem to escape—a firm arm around her middle helped yank her back against a solid frame and the pull at her scalp caused her eyes to water. Snape's silencing charm was in effect in this dreamscape and the frightened gasp that whistled past her teeth didn't even make a whisper. It could have been a shout of rage or a moan of pleasure, but it was lost to the ether as the Death Eater's burning hands found her chilled flesh. The scuffle of her bare feet against the floor could have been perverse. Her harsh breathing was a symphony of silent submission.

Dolohov's mouth was hot against her ear the same moment he slammed her against the wall, the burning heat of his body a sharp contrast against the icy marble. "Got you, _pchelka_ ," he rasped. His voice was low and deep, slower, too, as if spoken under water; her reaction to it was amplified further as he pressed the flat of his tongue right above the jumping pulse on her neck. The touch was so sudden she couldn't process it, didn't want to. Memories of Ron's tongue and her fingers and pleasure stolen in the small hours of the night bled together in a hellish collage of arousal as a man who hated her most caressed her body like a devoted lover, her own hands curling against the flat of the wall.

There wasn't an alarm bell in the world loud enough to jolt her awake and away from this nightmare.

Molasses and honey, the world became slow and sweet. Heat that should have been the stinging fire of his purple flame eased up her thighs and made her abdomen clench with want. _When will he cast the curse, this time?_ she thought to herself as he turned her to face him, strong hands slipping down her back and pressing over her hip. Her hands fell against his chest and she couldn't find the strength to push back. She couldn't think. She couldn't move.

The Dolohov that stood before her wasn't the awful wraith of a man who had escaped Azkaban with a razor's width between madness and what was left of his sanity—this Dolohov was the one she knew _now_ , his bright eyes burning like coals and his full mouth curving into a cruel smile at the sight of her. "I can't wait to make you burn," he purred. He was imposing, proud, and his palms were curiously reverent on her waist as he eased to his knees, his robes pooling around her feet as he knelt before her. His hands rucked her gown around her hips and he smiled awfully at her, all teeth and promise, absolutely thrilled that she couldn't seem to speak, couldn't seem to move.

" _Antonin_ ," he reminded her, slipping a hand between her legs and drawing one of her thighs to hitch over his shoulder. "Remember to use my given name when you're screaming for me."

He held her eyes as he lowered his wicked mouth to her cunt. Tongue and hands and lips and teeth—her hands were in his hair, her own head thrown back, rutting against this Death Eater's mouth like she was his to conquer—

The purple fire found her at her peak, and instead of shattering with pleasure against Dolohov's skillful tongue she screamed in pain, the scar on her chest ripping open anew in a blast of royal hellfire.

Hermione woke in a dark bedroom with her hands between her legs, the scar on her chest burning just as bright as the roaring disgust that racked horrified sobs through her sweating form. Even in her dreams Dolohov wouldn't grant her peace, nor dignity.

Somewhere far to the east the man himself had dropped his mug of tea, and his father didn't even blink when it shattered against the wooden kitchen floor.

* * *

Many thought the Malfoys lacked subtlety—if Draco were asked directly, he would be inclined to agree.

Why would he return to the Manor and go looking for Granger's wand himself, he thought, when he could simply write a letter to Thorfinn Rowle and have him owl it to Hogwarts?

"Bold" may be a Gryffindor trait, but it was a sorely underused weapon in a Slytherin's arsenal of deception. When his godfather had given Draco the task to begin with, Draco had no doubt what Snape had in mind; it was expected he would write a pleading letter to his mother, perhaps, asking to come home for the weekend. Perhaps he'd invite Pansy to tour the Manor's gardens, just to make his mother happy—that would have killed two birds with one stone, certainly. It would have taken a week at most, and as soon as Draco arrived home, he'd begin snooping about the parlors looking for the locked chest he knew existed somewhere, a chest containing the confiscated wands of former prisoners of the Manor. Perhaps Draco would have used a scrying mirror to determine which wand belonged to Granger; from there, all he would have to do is tuck it into his own sleeve and carefully peel himself back from the wards that no doubt guarded the chest. By the following morning Draco would present Snape Granger's wand by hand, maybe dropping it onto his desk with a dramatic flair and a cocked brow.

That was what Snape expected of him, at any rate.

No one, Draco thought with glee, would expect him to quill a sloppy, taunting letter demanding the mudblood's wand for "trophy purposes", as he so sickeningly put it. He hadn't even bothered to bring out the wax and press the official Malfoy crest to seal the missive—the parchment had been hastily folded into quarters and tied haphazardly to his owl's leg with a childish little bow. If anyone asked, Draco had sent the letter after too much mead, and upon receiving the wand, he destroyed it in a fit of grudging rage. It was so in character for the entitled little prick everyone thought him to be that no one, not even the Dark Lord, would question it.

 _ **Finn—send me Mudblood Granger's wand immediately. Trophy purposes. After she punched me third year she told me to shove my own wand up my arse…why do it with mine when I can have hers?**_

 _ **Father hides the key to the wine cellar under the potted plant in front of the day room. You're welcome, fucker.**_

Draco's eagle owl flew off with the message later that night under a blanket of stars. Who knew? Maybe he would still drop it on Snape's desk with a dramatic flair, after all.

* * *

 **A/N: Hello again! I took a couple of weeks to get settled into my semester, hope it hasn't been too long. Y'all have me spoiled with all of the feedback and I can't thank you enough!**

 **So there we have it: Dolohov has begun his visit with his father, and the waters are calm...for now. Hermione is experiencing her first taste of what the bond can make her feel. Draco schemes to retrieve her wand. Next Up: Thorfinn Rowle thinks Draco is an idiot and Herb fulfills a promise. Take care xx**


	11. Chapter 11

Dolohov could feel her as acutely as he could feel his own heartbeat—her breath expanded his lungs, her movements pulled at his sinew, and each shudder of deep, honeyed pleasure that flamed in her core dropped his stomach to his knees and made him clench. She wanted. She _burned_.

Past impressions of his little witch rose to the forefront of his thoughts as he discretely adjusted his rapidly hardening length in his pants; there the girl was in his mind's eye, reciting curses and beckoning him between her thighs with a knowing smirk. He burned with her, peaking, barely remembering to control his breathing as a burst of pain erupted in his chest with the finality of a closing door. The ward mark on his chest was hot as his witch, so far to the west, woke from whatever dream had coaxed such sweetness from her.

 _She better not be thinking of Severus_ , he thought wildly.

His father simply took a pull from his own cup, eyebrows slightly raised, his pupils darting down to survey the mess of his son's dropped tea on the kitchen floor before settling on the table. Aleksei was a man whose magical prowess and sensitivity nearly surpassed his son, but he didn't need his finely-honed senses to tell that the blood ward was effecting Antonin like lightning to a tree. If the curious heat emanating off the other man didn't tip him off, it was surely his son's tight, shocked expression. A muscle at Antonin's jaw jumped in a frustrated jolt of clenched teeth and his fists curled, seething, in his lap.

"It was like that with Kira, you know," Aleksei began, making the barest motion with his hand and vanishing the shattered mug and tea. His wand was somewhere by his bedside on the second level, but he didn't need it for minor tasks, despite everything. "It never gets better. There is no way to block this sort of connection between minds, Antonin, and you'd be as fool as I to try and fight it. I tried for years and, well…" He shifted uneasily and pointedly avoided looking at the portrait hanging above the stove. "You can see what I have to show for it."

The stricken look on Antonin's face didn't ease. He leaned toward his father and presented his scarred, open palms in supplication, his posture an uncanny mirror of the boy he had been, once, chastised and awaiting punishment on his father's hearth. "I cannot be bound to this witch, father. Not only will the Dark Lord not allow such a thing, but I have to kill her. You _must_ understand." The implication was heavy.

Aleksei's eyes, black in the fading day's light, were hard as he stared Antonin down. "Even after all this time you believe I killed your mother?" he murmured. All thoughts of tea and visits and catching up were gone, now; the conversation, at first an approximation of pleasant, was quickly taking a darker turn.

Antonin's fist pounded down on the tabletop so sharply that the cooling tea in his father's mug jumped to splash at Aleksei's hands. "You _hated_ her. Resented her. Resented _me_ ," Antonin seethed. "I watched my entire childhood as you hid yourself away in your study like a coward and consulted the texts of the Old Mages for a way to rid yourself of her. Was being bound to mother really so awful that you had to kill her?" A foreign wash of self-awareness pricked at Antonin's spine. Just there, hanging in the air between them, was the knowledge that Antonin had killed far more people than his father was ever suspected of. Antonin didn't think about the Prewetts often.

Aleksei's madness uncoiled like a warming snake as the wizard's personal demons came to take residence in his chest. The heart there had died many years before, and the smile that he cast at his son was a foul mockery of lips and teeth. For all of their similarities, Antonin had his mother's smile. "You have your answer, don't you, boy? That's how you get rid of your witch, then. You kill her."

" _I can't!_ " Dolohov shouted, shoving his chair back and standing to loom above the table. It was a mirror of how he had loomed above the girl over breakfast—a girl that, somewhere in Hogwarts, was weeping against her pillow with such abandon that Antonin felt her shame. Her shame made him furious. She was his, when would she understand? His to kill, his to—

"I know that, _glupyy malchik_ ," his father spat, the Russian insult curling against his teeth easier than its English counterpart. "The ward on you is an abomination, Antonin, it's _perverse_. This is no simple Vow or betrothal bond I sense on you. She cast a ward of protection to prevent you from hurting her, didn't she? You're so bloodthirsty and desperate." He rose to his feet and met his son at eye level. "Tom has destroyed you."

It would be so simple, Antonin thought. His grief, sadness, and rage mixed hellishly with the girl's fading sense of humiliation and fear…the urge to shake his wand into his hand and strike down Aleksei was so great he wanted it more than he wanted his next breath. The wards of the house around him were buzzing audibly, now, and as if sensing that he was about to lunge, the bottoms of his boots glued themselves to the floor and refused to budge. He could end it, right now, right in this house, kill all fucking three of them—

His father was lowering himself back into his seat, his attention ripped from Antonin as easily as a page from a book. "Calm down, boy. My magic may be weak, but the wards were cast when I was strong. You'll blow us all to hell if you keep it up."

"What happened to your magic?" Antonin growled.

The shadow of madness that pulled at the corners of Aleksei's mouth deepened and a memory from Antonin's childhood rose to the surface—his father's study at the Keep used to have old pages ripped from the _Prophet_ plastered all over the windows, and it hadn't been until Lucius made a comment about his father's erratic behavior that he saw it as _abnormal_. Until now, Antonin hadn't realized that his father wasn't able to sit still, not even for a minute, his entire body twitching uneasily as if inhabited by malevolent spirits. "Don't you know?" his father began, tone so chillingly conversational that the fine hairs on the back of Antonin's neck stood at attention. "My magic was bound to Kira's. She took most of it with her when she was killed."

The kitchen was dark, now, and both men examined the other in the quiet of the early evening. "My advice still stands, Antonin. Take your ill-gotten witch and run—you've given far too much of your soul to Tom already."

Antonin could sense nothing more would come of this visit, and with a turn of his wrist, his wand fell into his palm. "I intend to give it to him entirely," he whispered.

A flash of emerald light illuminated the kitchen and Aleksei Dolohov slumped dead to the floor. The house shuddered around Antonin like a box in a gale and fire, royal purple fire so close to his own, engulfed the entire kitchen in a roaring spike.

Hermione Granger didn't have the senses to ascertain that somewhere, somehow, her bond mate had burst into flame. All she knew was that her skin was too hot, and no amount of sobbing in Snape's cramped shower would alleviate the burning.

That's how Snape would find her when he came to serve breakfast, huddled naked under frigid spray, crying like her heart was breaking.

* * *

Severus Snape was no stranger to crying females, unfortunately.

Before the dissolution of his friendship with Lily he had acted as her shoulder to cry on many times—Lily would come to him with a flushed face and shining eyes, and with all the tenderness in the world he would tuck her into the crook of his shoulder and listen as she sobbed about Petunia, or her parents, or even James Potter. The girl had been a wildfire prone to self-combustion, but Snape never minded her little explosions. He was not a kind man. Not an empathetic one.

For Lily, he could have been. He would have given her anything.

It was a shame that softness hadn't stayed with him after her murder, really. _He_ had never cried in front of a teacher in _his_ youth—it wasn't until he took his post at Hogwarts that he realized some children were so emotionally demanding of their instructors. Good gods, his tenure as Head of Slytherin House was characterized by more crying girls in his dungeon office than completed potions. Not even his sneers and harsh words would deter them.

Having already had his fill of a crying, emotional-wreck Hermione Granger the night before, he was in no mood to entertain the girlish whimpering of the one huddled dramatically in the shower. Finding her bedroom empty had sent unease smoothing down his spine when he entered early that morning with a tray of breakfast in hand; if he hadn't have heard the shower running in the bathroom nearby he would have torn his quarters apart looking for her. She was powerful and wily despite her diminutive stature, so who knows what sort of havoc she could wreak out of his sight.

"Quit your sniveling, girl," he demanded roughly, one pale hand yanking the shower curtain back unceremoniously. Before the events in the Astronomy Tower Snape might have recoiled from the thought of crossing such a boundary with a former student—now, weary and stretched thin, he couldn't give any less of a damn. "Get up." She was an awful sight under the sheen of water. The scar on her chest looked flushed and tight, and the _MUDBLOOD_ carving on her forearm looked slightly inflamed.

"It _hurts_!" she wailed pitifully, her small hands helplessly clawing at her skin, slender fingers scattering over her abdomen and digging into her thighs. Snape tried very, very hard to keep his eyes on her face and not on the subtle curve of her hip as she shifted under the water's spray. Even half-starved with her hair a wet nest against her neck…he would stop himself there.

Snape did not have time for this. The Board of Governors wanted to meet with him in an hour. He reached into the tub and yanked the girl to her feet with one strong hand around her bicep, ignoring the icy rush of water that pummeled at his shoulder and slipped down the back of his frock coat as he wrenched her out of the bathroom. A flick of his wand and several seconds later, both of their bodies were dry and the tap was turned off. A simple robe was conjured with a lazy gesture of his hand. "What hurts, exactly?" The girl looked unharmed, as far as he could tell—she was sweating and warm, but otherwise, she was the normal picture of a drowned rat swaddled in terrycloth as he bustled her down the hallway.

"I woke from this dream—the mark hurts, Professor, it hurts like it did at first—and my skin, it feels like something is wrong—" The girl was trying, valiantly, to keep her breathing under control. Once deposited back in the room she sunk onto the bed, her hands slipping inside the robe to rub worriedly over her chest. Her physical discomfort was more apparent to him now as she shifted bodily on the mattress, her body flinching away from unseen sensations and reacting to a stimulus that wasn't there.

Something clicked for Snape. "It's Dolohov," he replied tonelessly.

The girl didn't stop her frantic rubbing, her panic not cooling one bit at hearing the Russian wizard's name. If anything, her mounting panic spiked at his mention, clear as day in her whiskey eyes. "What?"

"You're most likely feeling something residual through the bond. I had warned Antonin that something like this might happen. Stay here," he ordered. He left the room and dipped into his private stores; when he returned, he passed her a vial of suppressant potion and laid another vial of Dreamless Sleep on the nightstand. "This will help. Take it."

Granger followed his instructions and ignored the tray of food laid at the end of her bed. Snape tried not to stare at the notches of her ribs as the robe fell open and wished she would eat. "Professor?" she began.

Whatever question she had been angling to ask went unanswered. Snape swept from the room as soon as he was assured she was safe—he had more important matters to attend to than one slip of girl who should have died the week before at Malfoy Manor.

Something had gone wrong with Antonin's visit with his father, then. Snape decided he would be furious if the bastard somehow got himself killed by the reclusive, rumored-mad Dolohov patriarch. He didn't want to survive one more day in the Granger girl's terrible company, and if Antonin didn't return to collect her, Snape just might kill her himself.

A stack of paperwork and a mountain of unopened mail greeted him on his desk in the Headmaster's office. Hopefully Draco was progressing in his assigned task…the other alternative was to give the girl her wand and turn her loose. Dolohov would seek retribution if he was alive, but if he wasn't—

—the girl would have been dead also. There was no end to this.

Snape indulged his self-pity and let out a sigh. The Governors were waiting.

* * *

"Good gods, Draco. You look like shit."

Thorfinn Rowle stood in the dormitory doorway as if standing in for the door itself; the man's wide frame stretched from hinge to lock, the top of his golden head nearly brushing against the eave. Draco decided it was wholeheartedly unfair that the older Death Eater look so put-together and carefree in the dawning light of early morning—a hasty _Tempus_ charm let Draco know it was barely past six a.m.

Draco hurled one of his pillows at the man, not bothering to turn his face from the mattress to see if the projectile struck its target. "Save the sweet nothings for Aunt Bella," he growled, his voice uncharacteristically gruff from sleep. "No amount of buttering me up is going to get me to invite you into my bed, Finn."

The taunt came back to haunt him as Rowle's wide hand smacked impatiently against Draco's naked shoulder. "Shove over," he commanded. Several curses and ample shuffling later and the blond oaf was in bed right beside him, his boots hanging off the end of the bed as he wrenched the blankets away from Draco. "No need to play coy. I've had a standing invitation into your bed since you were twelve and starting having nightmares."

Draco huffed and turned on his side, attempting—and failing—to steal back his remaining pillow. "Gonna tell me why the fuck you're here?"

Rowle closed his eyes and settled in. If Draco's wand hadn't been shoved between the mattress and the bed frame on Thorfinn's side of the bed he might have hexed him. Malfoys didn't _share_. "Got your letter last night," Rowle began. "Couldn't find the key to the wine cellar. Are you sure it's in the potted plant?"

Something grim touched at Draco's features. It was a good thing, he thought, that his fellow dorm-mates had already left for breakfast, because being caught in bed with Thorfinn Rowle looking like a sleep-deprived, ruffled swot wouldn't do any favors for his reputation. His dark circles rivaled the shadows clinging at the floor as the sunlight filtered in through the window. "That's where it was last time I found it," Draco offered. "Did you find Granger's wand?"

There it was, the heart of the matter. The letter could have been playful, nonchalant—nothing about _this_ was. Thorfinn opened his eyes and turned to face Draco, a hard set to his mouth that said _I don't buy your shit_. "Why do you want it, really?" Draco didn't answer, so Thorfinn continued. "The cabinet they're kept in is warded like the damn vault—no doubt Dolohov is the one who set that mess up. The parlor the cabinet is kept in is almost always crawling with company, and as much as I would love to crawl between Bellatrix's legs and show her what my mouth can do, I have no desire to engage in idle chit-chat with the witch in attempt to remove her long enough to break into the damn thing. Ever since the elf escaped with Potter and Ollivander the Dark Lord has been very particular about keeping the prisoner's wands."

Draco shifted and propped his head on his hand, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he formulated an answer. His Dark Mark was obsidian black against his pale forearm and he didn't miss the way Thorfinn's eyes darted to it. He couldn't tell Rowle the real reason he needed Granger's wand, but the man had known him for far too long to be completely fooled. The raunchy humor of his letter wouldn't work here in person; better than anyone else Thorfinn could see through Draco's bullshit. Deflection for now, he decided. "Why do you think he's so keen on keeping the wands?"

Rowle's shrug jostled the bed and made the frame creak. "No idea. Alecto came back sometime yesterday and he's been keeping her close. Your father thinks she'll be sent out on another assignment somewhere to the east, something to do with the wandmakers there. The Dark Lord has taken an interest in wands recently. As far as I know he's still using your father's, maybe he's in the market for a new one. He doesn't use his own anymore."

 _What was so special about the wands? Why has he stopped using his own?_ "You've worked with Dolohov before, though. Think you can crack his wards to the cabinet?" Thinking about the Russian wizard sent a rush of unease through Draco—Dolohov had been missing for days, now, and the reminder that Granger was squirreled away to safety somewhere in the castle did nothing to calm the repulsion he felt. Dolohov had left the Manor with Granger, surely…so why wasn't he here with her? Shouldn't the Dark Lord be able to track him if he wasn't in a safe house somewhere? Draco filed these questions away to ask Snape. Perhaps he could hold Granger's wand hostage until he was granted answers.

"I tried," Rowle ground out, his expression sour. "Even had a nightcap with your mad aunt. Dolohov's wards are impenetrable." He turned, then, mimicking Draco's posture and leaning up on his elbow to examine the Malfoy heir. "Now tell me the truth. Why do you want Granger's wand? As charming as the image of it shoved up your arse is, I know Pansy can do _that_ much better for you."

Draco's words were slow and careful. The memory of sitting quietly in the Manor's drawing room with Thorfinn after the disaster of the week before rose to the surface—Rowle's loyalty to the Dark Lord was about as solid as his, these days. The Vow of silence he made to his godfather prevented him from telling the whole truth, but perhaps an approximation of it wouldn't go amiss. "Granger deserved better," he stated, his mouth curling around the unfamiliar admission with something resembling distaste. Gods forbid anyone ever heard him say that. "I don't know where she is—" _a lie_ "—but I'm sure wherever she is she'd be appalled to have her wand locked away somewhere in Death Eater company. I hated the cheeky bint, sure, but I don't like the thought of her wand being kept in the house where she almost died." A pregnant paused settled over the pair as Draco geared up for his second admission. "The nonsense about Mudbloods stealing their magic from Purebloods—it's ridiculous. That wand was Granger's, even given the abomination to nature that it is in the first place."

Thorfinn's gaze was almost soft on him. Draco hated it. "You ever show Pansy this side of you, Malfoy? I'm sure she'd love it. Witches love a caring bloke."

Draco dropped his head back against the mattress and curled up a single leg, and with a grunt of great effort he kicked Rowle right onto the floor in a heap of indignant flailing. "Damn right she loves it. Tell anyone and I'll cut your bollocks clean off. Could get a galleon for them at Borgin & Burkes."

Rowle rolled to his feet and untangled himself from the blanket. One large hand shook out his mane of hair and the other slung blanket on top of Draco. "You're so sweet. I'm sure Dolohov would curse you dead if he heard you saying such nice things about his little plaything."

Another memory—this time, Granger's terrified face as Dolohov ripped her sweater clean down the middle. Draco winced. "Fucker is probably dead somewhere." It wouldn't be far from the truth, seeing that Granger was safely in the care of his godfather. More questions to ask for later. "Try again for me, though? I'm sure you can work out the cabinet. Get me that wand and I'll make sure the Malfoy wine cellar is yours to plunder whenever fancy strikes."

Thorfinn began ambling towards the door, shaking his wand into his palm as he reached it. "I'll try. Have any other ideas where Daddy Dearest keeps the cellar key?"

Draco slung one pale arm over his eyes and groaned. "Just blast the damn door down," he sighed. "I'll claim responsibility and fix it later."

Thorfinn's laugh was low and deep. "I just might take you up on that. I'll see what I can do," he promised.

Once again alone, Draco rolled to his feet and shucked off his sleep pants in favor for his school uniform. First order of the day—breakfast.

Second—get more answers from Snape. Something wasn't adding up about Granger, and Draco knew better than to make any more moves without knowing all the relevant details first.

He was supposed to meet Pansy for dinner. _Guess I'll cancel_. Draco tugged on his button-down and glowered at the sunrise through the window—at this rate, she'd dump him before he'd get a chance to propose for being such shit at courtship. Mother wouldn't be pleased.

Maybe interrogating Snape could wait.

* * *

The shame hadn't left her.

Hermione Granger knew better than most that dreams were just that—dreams. Some of her life's major events had been set into motion because of dreams being taken as truth, one notable example being Harry's dreams about Voldemort their fifth year. If Harry hadn't had visions of Sirius in the Department of Mysteries she never would have met Antonin Dolohov in the first place…and would have most likely died at the wand of Bellatrix Lestrange on the Manor's drawing room floor. You couldn't control the content of your nighttime musings, she decided.

It didn't make it easier.

The thought of Antonin Dolohov—all raw power and dark, burning eyes—kneeling at her feet like a devotee at an altar unsettled her at her deepest level, the image shaking her marrow and clenching hard at her pounding heart. Warring emotions coursed through her. Disgust. Fear. _Arousal_. A gorgeous man, she'd admit, but utterly despicable in every conceivable way otherwise. Dolohov was not a safe outlet for sexual fantasy. Not in the least.

 _Ron_ , Hermione thought firmly. _I miss Ron_.

That was another can of worms she was reluctant to open.

Even after obediently downing the suppressant potion Snape had passed her that morning her skin pricked something awful; the sensation had started just minutes after she woke from her dream, and in her devastated, half-awake state, he had feared that the bursting pain in her chest was to blame for the familiar sensation of fire licking up her ankles and winding around her ribcage. It was torture without a source. Dolohov had set her on fire multiple times back at the Manor during his failed interrogation. This felt just like that. She was burning alive, and this time, it wasn't a metaphorical euphemism used to disguise the pulsing lust she felt against Dolohov's mouth in her confusing, sordid dream.

No flames could be seen but her skin stung horribly. The shower hadn't helped and Snape's attitude assisted even less. _What had he meant, "residual sensations"?_ Was Dolohov hurt somewhere, wherever he went? The thought should have pleased her, she decided, but all she could feel at the thought was raw, naked fear. Her life was tied to intimately to his, now, due to the blood bond. _That bastard better not die_ , she thought grimly.

The pain was subsiding more and more each hour, and by the time the sun had risen to the sky's apex it was nearly gone. The breakfast on her platter had been eaten and now boredom set in once more; the vial of Dreamless Sleep on the nightstand taunted her, and for mere seconds she considered dosing herself unconscious just for something to do. She decided against it quickly. As kind as Snape was being to her—if you could call his ham-fisted attempts at taking care of her _kind_ —she had no doubt he would find some way to ruin her rest if she dared take it before nightfall. He was still a Death Eater, as he'd reminded her, and she had no firm footing for which to judge his actions.

For lack of anything else to occupy herself with, she settled on the floor in front of the bed and closed her eyes. Today she'd practice her wandless magic some more, and with any luck, she'd have all the furniture in the room levitating by the time Snape returned with her dinner. Hopefully, Herb had gotten word to Bill and Fleur about her whereabouts.

A small smile pulled at her lips. Snape had been gracious in giving her the potions—she wouldn't send her furniture flying to attack him when he returned, _this time_.

* * *

It had been nearly a week since they escaped the Manor.

Harry Potter wasn't prone to quiet introspection—that was more Hermione's area of expertise, and even then, rarely was there anything _quiet_ about her. The memory of her hunched over the small table in their shared tent, muttering madly to herself over a spread of open books, stung his heart as acutely as her Stinging Hex had back at the Manor. He missed her. Terribly.

And Ron…well. Ron was even worse. Harry never thought he'd see the day where his broad ginger friend would ever willingly skip meals.

Shell Cottage was as good a place as any to lay low, the pair decided, and Ron had been ecstatic about seeing his older brother again. Fleur was the perfect picture of feminine hospitality as she welcomed the newcomers into her home, and Bill, with his small, tight smile and taciturn manner, set about preparing the guest rooms for their stay. _Our home is your home_ , Bill had told Harry, one firm hand pressed comfortingly at the back of his neck. Bill and Ron shared the same pale blue eyes, and unbidden, Harry was reminded painfully of Ginny. The thought of her alone at Hogwarts— _the den of snakes_ , Hermione had snarked at one point—pained him almost as much as Hermione's absence did.

The humid, salt-tinged air around the cottage filled Harry's sinuses with a cold sting at the quick, involuntary inhalation the thought of his fiery friend brought about. Hermione, screaming for mercy on the drawing room floor. Hermione, her small hands fisting the back of his shirt as they were marched up the grandiose driveway of Malfoy Manor. Hermione, and the defiant set of her jaw as he and Ron were bodily dragged into the dungeons. Every thought brought him back to the girl; _was she alive? Was she safe? What had Bellatrix done to her?_ Guilt oozed tacky horror between his teeth as he clenched his jaw. It was his fault, he decided, that Hermione hadn't managed to escape with them.

Morning bled lazily into afternoon and Harry shifted from his spot on his knees beside Dobby's hand-dug grave. Every day he would leave the cottage and sit before the headstone he carved—there wasn't enough gratitude in the world to express what he felt for the gentle, enthusiastic elf. Bellatrix's cursed knife had been pried from the elf's chest as quickly as it had been spotted, but when it came down to it, Hermione was the expert on healing in their little trio. He and Ron had been helpless to stop the bleeding.

Back at the cottage, Mr. Ollivander and Luna Lovegood helped Fleur prepare for lunch. Griphook, the sly goblin who coveted the sword of Gryffindor, stayed to his appointed room and didn't interact much with anyone other than Bill. Ron and his brother were in the adjacent forest—hunting had never been a facet of life for the trio in the tent, but Bill had insisted on teaching at least one of them how. No doubt he and Ron would be leaving Shell Cottage any day now.

The hope that Hermione would appear out of thin air and rejoin them was omnipotent and bitter. She can't have stayed at the Manor. Surely after their escape the Death Eaters would relocate her somewhere else, perhaps use her as a bargaining chip or hostage in the war effort. Bill had gotten word out to the Order that Hermione was in captivity, but despite their best efforts, no one had any news to give about where she might have been taken. For all they knew, Hermione Granger had died in that drawing room and they were chasing after a hope that would never come to fruition.

Harry Potter shifted to his feet and brushed the loamy soil away from the knees of his jeans. Just as he was about to turn towards the cottage—he wanted to be useful, somehow, and ever since what happened at the Manor he hadn't felt like it—he saw a small figure pop into existence right at the edge of the sea shore.

Every muscle tightened in quick, defensive fear. His wand was in his palm before he could think to consciously command the action, and by his next breath it was pointed at the small creature carefully walking up to the gravesite—

—a house elf, Harry saw, this one dressed in a crisp white cloth with the Hogwarts Crest embroidered below the collar. As it walked closer, Harry nearly burst into tears at the site of the elf's familiar, Coke-bottle green eyes.

"Hello, Harry Potter," the elf greeted solemnly, dropping into a reverent bow. "I is Herb!"

* * *

 **A/N: this has been my longest chapter yet! Dolohov's visit with his father ended on a sour note, Hermione is grappling with the sensations traveling across the blood bond, Snape is reluctantly continuing his duties as spy, Big Brother Thorfinn is back to torment Draco, and Herb made good on his promise to go to Shell Cottage. Up Next: Dolohov returns to collect Hermione, Harry and Ron make a plan, and Draco falls into more trouble than he intended.**

 **Not sure if anyone caught the suggestion in the last chapter...Aleksei Dolohov was totally wearing Adidas track pants. Couldn't resist.**

 **I can't say it enough, but thank you so much to everyone who has favorited, reviewed, and added this tale to your alerts! I feel very spoiled by the support and hope y'all are having as much fun reading this as I am writing it. Take care xx**


	12. Chapter 12

Lucius Malfoy had been a proud, elegant man, even in his youth. Antonin had never been fond of him.

The silver-haired mage had been the first to call Antonin out for being paranoid, flighty, _reactionary_ —his ice gray eyes, curiously tilted and thickly lashed, had flickered to Antonin's almost coquettishly as he stared the darker wizard down over Slytherin's table in the Great Hall one morning over breakfast. _Is that really necessary, Tosha?_ he had asked, his voice a practiced Pureblood purr even rasping with the last clinging vestiges of sleep. _You can't honestly be that suspicious of your housemates._ Antonin hated Lucius for many reasons—his effortless manner with others, his beauty, his generous, loving parents—but he hated him most for how familiar he deigned to make himself. Lucius was, and would be, the only person outside of Antonin's mother who would call him _Tosha_. A cute diminutive, less harsh than his given name. Softer. Antonin loathed it— _I am not soft_ , he would think.

Antonin had been fifteen, then, and he had been darkly warding a personal journal with horrid, deceptively-innocent charms to ensure the other members of his dormitory would never dare intrude on his personal thoughts.

 _(a rookie mistake, he would realize later in his career—use the element of surprise to your advantage, flashy wards are sometimes less effective than quiet ones, and nevernevernever let others know what you're up to—)_

It was safe to say Dolohov had only become more paranoid with age.

It was no surprise to him, then, when he was met with the sharp, bespoke tips of Lucius Malfoy's dragonhide boots when he managed to crawl his way out from the rubble of what used to be his father's home. His suspicious nature had caused him to expect it.

 _Leave the Keep and the wards, leave yourself vulnerable for tracking—_

 _The Mark burning like hellfire on his arm, the sting only growing more persistent the further he traveled from western Europe—_

—Malfoy, one of the Dark Lord's better trackers, staring down his nose at the rattled black mage as he unsteadily pulled to his feet _._

"You've gotten sloppy, Tosha."

Dolohov was inclined to agree. Despite the litany of protective charms he had layered over his traveling cloak before embarking on his journey, the swatch of heavy black cloth was nearly singed threadbare from the force of his father's royal ward-fire. The leather of his boots was nearly liquefied to his feet. Heavy burns licked up his legs and numbed his jumping nerves, hotly searing his abdomen and flank. The now-cancelled Bubble-Head Charm (or a derivative thereof, anyway) had done its job in protecting his head, but the skin from his neck to his chest was black with injury, the buttons of his shirt melted against his skin. The rubble of the felled house still smoked around him. The scent of sulfur and ozone clogged his sinuses. Burning pain was a constant companion to his aching muscles as the wizard shook himself and met the Malfoy patriarch eye to eye. "Hello, love," Antonin rasped, sarcasm painting his greeting black as the ash that coated his skin. "Took you long enough to find me. Did the Dark Lord send you himself, or is this a vigilante mission to prove your diminishing worth?"

Lucius folded his hands smartly over his cane and sneered at the ruin in front of him, his hair brushing off his shoulders with the breeze as he considered his next words. Even in only silks and velvet, Lucius appeared completely untouched by the Novosibirsk cold. "The Dark Lord sent me to collect you," he replied, casting his eyes about the charred remains of the broken building. Curls of smoke vanished into the night as the evening progressed darker, and Dolohov nearly doubled in a fit of hacking cough. "I take it our prisoner is not with you at the moment."

Dolohov's smile was all teeth. "No."

"You have to return with her. The Dark Lord has plans."

"I'm sure."

"Why did you run?" There it was, Dolohov thought—curiosity. Lucius couldn't help himself, he had to _know_. "The Dark Lord has been calling you for _days_."

Dolohov's wand was still in his hand. He didn't expect Lucius to try and attack—of the two wizards the Russian was the better dueler, and if Lucius came alone then it was fully expected he would return to Malfoy Manor without much of a fuss. The Dark Lord was displeased, then, but merely that; if he had suspected that Dolohov was unfaithful to him he would have sent Rowle, and Greyback, and Bellatrix…a veritable army to bring him down. Dolohov and his dirty secret hadn't been discovered, then. _Yet_.

"I had some family business to attend to!" came his reply, and he jovially gestured to the ruin of his childhood home around him with a jaunty flourish. "Surely _you_ , Lucius, a consummate family man, can understand matters of the blood such as this." Pain touched his voice, but just so—his father's wards had been quite strong, but Dolohov's preparation for this meeting had been better. A lesser wizard would have perished in the flames. "Run along back to the Manor, Malfoy, I'll be following shortly."

The set of Lucius's mouth became harder, less pleased. Even though the two men had never been friends, they were brothers in arms when it had counted and could sense a change of mood in the other. Antonin could read the other wizard's exhaustion and wariness just as easily as he could feel his own heartbeat. "I was instructed to bring you in immediately, Antonin. Where is the girl? Securing her capture has been a positive turn in the war effort, especially considering the escape of the other prisoners." Lucius's head inclined, slightly, and something akin to a smirk pulled at his sensual mouth. Even tired and afraid the man could command a certain presence, Antonin decided. " _Your_ failure, if I'm correct."

As much as it grated on him to be reminded of his oversight with the Manor's wards, Antonin knew better than to seek retribution for the gentle barb. At this moment, neither the Dark Lord or Lucius suspected that Antonin had been compromised in any way; if anything, his inconsistent nature had saved him in this regard. The Dark Lord was furious—but not suspicious of Dolohov's motives for disappearing. His blood bond to Potter's mudblood would remain secret for just a while longer if he managed to play this interaction right, and "right" meant not cursing Malfoy to the lowest level of hell. "A wrong I will work most diligently to rectify," Antonin rasped. Seven hells, those burns _hurt_. "The girl is still in trusted custody and my return to the Manor will be accompanied by the information the Dark Lord sought to extract from her. I'm afraid my interrogation methods have gotten a little more… _enthusiastic_ than I originally planned them to be."

A sliver of fear marred Lucius's cool countenance at this admission. Dolohov knew the heart of the matter; if Lucius failed in the task to bring him back to Malfoy Manor with the mudblood in tow, Lucius would fall even farther out of favor with the Dark Lord and would be even more thoroughly punished than before. Malfoy—and his son—had failed at a whole host of tasks over the last few years. No doubt this one would be a nail in the proverbial coffin. Lucius could not overpower Dolohov and the girl was not here to be snatched away…he had failed. Again. Dolohov relished the flash of defeat that spiked in Malfoy's pale gaze. For now, at least, Lucius was too bothered by this turn of events to question why Dolohov was visiting his estranged father in the first place.

" _Please_ , Tosha," Malfoy implored, his brow coming together in a handsome furrow, his weight shifting forward slightly. His voice was all velvet, now, and good gods did the man beg like an angel. "Please come back with me. Tell me where you've stashed the girl and we'll return to the Manor. The Dark Lord will understand your motives, I'm sure—"

Dolohov cut the man off with a bitter laugh. His grip on his wand tightened as he prepared for apparition; his next words came with such loving, deadly promise that it nearly sounded like he _wanted_ Lucius to suffer at the Dark Lord's hand. "You shouldn't have called me that," Dolohov said with a sneer. "You know I never liked it."

"Tosha—"

" _Do svidaniya_ ," Antonin granted, disappearing into the smoky evening with a final _crack_.

* * *

Physical wounds licked and tended to—just barely to the edge of comfort—Dolohov was now more able to focus on the _mental_ scars currently demanding his full attention.

The shabby inn on the outskirts of St. Petersburg held few fixtures by way of comfort; the bed was hard and small, the window spelled shut and grimy, and the dull closet that served as a bathroom was a mausoleum of aged, crumbling tile. As far as wizarding establishments went this was far from the worst Dolohov had endured, but it certainly didn't grant him an ideal environment to heal himself in. The locale had been chosen for the strategic location of the apothecary across the street and its status as a city far from Novosibirsk. The potions were merely adequate as far as burn salve went—Severus made better.

 _Severus_.

The thought of the brooding professor brought him no comfort as he considered his next moves. He had to return to Scotland to collect the girl from Hogwarts, and given the abundant apparition he had already practiced this night he knew it would be exceedingly foolish to attempt it again before returning to his full strength. A portkey could be procured in the morning, but for now, Dolohov slumped shirtless and sweating on the bathroom floor, his skin making blood-smudged impressions on the wall where he collapsed against it. Dolohov wasn't sure what was worse: the smell of heavy rosemary from the gritty salve, or the stinking, meat-rot char of his own burned skin. He was numb to the pain for the most part, several empty bottles of pain potion scattered between the bed and the bathroom door like a trail of sinister breadcrumbs.

The blood bond that tethered him to the girl was quiet, now. She must have been asleep. Had she felt him as acutely as he did her? Severus had likely dosed her with potion to keep her docile during the night. Had he taken care of her? Had he _touched_ her?

The mere suggestion sent rage flaring in Dolohov's gut like uncontrolled Fiendfyre. His witch had been so hot and wanting, earlier, so deliciously aching that his grip had failed him around his mug of tea. The girl burned brightly and had a certain lust for life, Dolohov knew, but he hadn't considered that her lusts might stray into those of the flesh. She was so frightfully _young_. What riled her so? They were in the midst of war and she was taken prisoner—surely nothing of her own imaginings had sent her writhing and sparking in such a way.

 _Severus_. Not an attractive man, not a charming one, definitely not one to touch his students. _But the girl wasn't a student of his any longer, was she? Surely he wasn't the only one who had seen her fire, become enraptured with how hot her rage burned when she was angry—_

—the cloudy mirror above the sink cracked in a burst of unbridled, angry wandless magic, and Dolohov jerked in surprise at the sharp sound. His control was in shambles around him, laid out in ribbons just like the discarded packets of burn salve that helped his skin knit itself back together. The ward mark on his chest throbbed in time with his shallow breathing. His head swam with unease.

He would return to Hogwarts, collect his witch, and escape to the Keep before the situation could spiral any further from his control. His visit with his father had failed and he was no closer to destroying the blood bond than he had been when he left; as long as the Dark Lord thought his absence was some form of unconventional interrogation as he had led Lucius to believe, he would be safe for a little bit longer. No doubt Lucius would return to their master's side, take his punishment, and unwittingly feed their Lord lies. _Antonin has always had a flair for the dramatic, Antonin never does things the easy way, surely Antonin will have the girl's memories of Potter brought to you in no time—_

Dolohov let his skull thump back heavily on the wall behind him, his dark eyes tracking the stuttering path of a small moth as it battered against the wall sconce above the cracked mirror. His wand laid abandoned on the lip of the sink as his soot-grimed fingertips idly traced runes into the bathroom floor. His breath came in painful jerks. He waited, healing, _seething_ , and lost himself to a memory of his mother's gentle hands.

He would not think of his father. He would _not_.

* * *

Rude awakenings had been common in the girl's dormitory in House Gryffindor.

In her second year, Hermione had been yanked from sleep by Lavender Brown, who had curled her fists into Hermione's blanket and tossed the bedding with such authority that for one insane moment the girl had mistaken Lavender for a smaller, blonder version of her mother. _Get up, Hermione!_ the blonde had shrieked, tossing the blanket away where the brunette couldn't reach. _You promised to help me with my charms work and it's almost noon—_

Fourth year hadn't been any better. For all of her resemblance to Mrs. Weasley when she was angry, Ginny was a touch more gentle in rousing Hermione from sleep. Her hands had been cold and insistent, though, and they hadn't released their grip from Hermione's thin shoulder until the witch had been on her way out of bed, the shift of her hips dislodging a displeased Crookshanks as she slid from sleep. _C'mon, Mione, Ron has been looking for you all morning, it's Harry—_

Those two occurrences weren't the most troubling, but they were the most prominent in Hermione's mind when the elegant hands of Severus Snape descended on her arms in the early hours of the morning, his palms rough on her shoulders as he literally hauled her from bed as if she were chattel.

Spitting curls of frizzing hair from her mouth, she wriggled unhappily in his grip as she attempted to twist away from his surprising, unyielding hold. "Severus Snape, what the _f_ —"

" _Quiet,_ girl," he snapped, releasing her arms with such haste Hermione nearly toppled back into bed. Her mouth was cotton-sour dry and her limbs felt heavy, no doubt a side effect of the Dreamless Sleep potion. Snape's pale, drawn face swam in her field of view, his broad form haloed by the light coming in through the open door. Hermione couldn't discern his expression in the angled shadows, but his voice was low and insistent enough to snap her to attention like a soldier on the frontlines. "He is almost here, and when he arrives you best be ready to leave with him. I am not suffering his temper any more than I have to, do you understand?"

Hermione didn't need to be told who _he_ was. A peculiar awareness tickled at her spine as she thought the Russian wizard's name, something like a physical pull dragging at her thoughts—emotions, quick and jumbled and ultimately terrified, clogged in her throat as she considered that he was coming for her. It had only been a handful of days since she had been left in Snape's care. _Too quick!_ her thoughts screamed. _She was supposed to be here longer, Herb was supposed to get the word to Bill and Fleur that she was in the castle—_

Snape was moving towards the open door, his robes swirling around his ankles as he exited her bedroom. There was something definitive in his step—he expected her to follow. Hermione couldn't breathe.

"Follow now. Antonin will meet you in the sitting room."

Hermione could do nothing but comply.

 _Too soon, too soon_ , she thought, the words becoming a panicked chant in her mind when they reached the sitting room she had first awoken in that first day in Snape's care. A glance towards the windows confirmed that it was just before sunrise, the misty fog clinging to the panes of glass nearly obscuring the peachy line of morning light just cresting over the mountains in the distance. The fireplace was unlit and cold, and the golden trinkets Hermione had levitated that first day had been placed back in their proper locations about the circular room. Hermione's borrowed nightdress suddenly seemed too thin and revealing; she was covered from neck to ankle, but the prospect of seeing Dolohov made her feel fairly naked.

( _his burning mouth on her skin, his hands rucking her dress up around her waist so he could_ taste _—)_

 _Stop, Hermione_.

Hermione sank to the velvet sofa and centered herself. Panicking would do her no favors; soon she would be outnumbered by not one, but two powerful wizards, both with wands, and she was unarmed. It would have been ideal for her to stay in Snape's care for a little longer—hopefully until the Order could arrive to help her escape—but her current situation would not grind to a halt despite her fervent wishes.

It was time to face it head-on. Snape was pacing by the windows, his long fingers twirling his wand impatiently in his grasp as he turned back and forth. His mouth was a tight, displeased line when he caught her staring. _What could he possibly be unhappy about?_ Hermione mused. It was obvious he hadn't wanted her here and didn't intend to help her escape Dolohov, despite his odd little displays of kindness; if anything, the Headmaster should be dancing on the hearth and praising Merlin that Dolohov was returning to reclaim his prisoner.

"Professor?" Hermione tried. She planted her palms firmly on the sofa's velvet in an attempt to reign in her mounting anxiety.

Black eyes met hers in a glance. His pacing didn't stop, but now he tracked her with his pupils as he turned back and forth, slower now. "Yes, Miss Granger?"

Hermione willed herself not to shiver at his velvet tone. Gods, the man was as unsettling as they came, she decided. "Do you think—I mean, if I am to travel—I'm not entirely dressed—"

Her request became redundant with a sharp flick of his wand. Her nightdress transfigured itself into a plain black shift, the collar starched white and the hem falling just above her knees. She fidgeted with the sleeves and considered her next request even more carefully. "Do you know where he was while he was away, sir?"

Snape's pacing jerked to a halt. His wand was still in his hand—Hermione tried very hard not to look at it as he spoke. "I imagine you'll have ample time to ask him, won't you?"

There was something curling in her former professor's voice that troubled her, a subtle insinuation that made her cheeks hot. She rose from the sofa and smoothed her clammy palms down her transfigured dress, once again painfully aware that she was unarmed. No wand, hair loose, feet bare…she wouldn't even be able to run, if she wanted to. "I doubt it," Hermione replied, her voice steady despite her trepidation. "Dolohov is quite keen on killing me the first chance he gets." An idea gripped her; it was foolhardy to voice it, but she found herself walking closer before she could think better of it. "You could have made it easy for him, Professor. Your Lord treats his subordinates as chess pieces, does he not? Each in competition with the other. By killing me you could have killed Dolohov also. The bond between us would have ensured it. Wouldn't than garner you favor with Voldemort? Dolohov went against his orders at the Manor and left with me, didn't tell anyone where he was going or what he intended to do with me—this could have been quite the lucky situation for you, for a _loyal_ Death Eater such as yourself."

Hermione came to a stop before Snape, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. There was less than a foot of space between them now, and something dangerous was breeding in the air around them. The stormy look on the Headmaster's face was indication enough that she should have stopped talking. The sitting room was lighter now, and the golden light shining in through the foggy window made the planes of Snape's face look harder, older. Meaner. "You even told me to practice my wandless magic when I arrived," she accused softly.

A muscle jumped in Snape's clenched jaw, and Hermione tracked the movement with her eyes, allowing her gaze to stay on the professor's mouth as he responded. His eyes were too angry to focus on for long. "Whatever you _think_ you know," Snape whispered, "is wrong."

The smile that curled Hermione's lips was quick, unbidden, and absolutely without a single measure of pretense. Something that felt curiously like victory, like _hope_ , burned in her gut. "What I _know_ , Professor, is that you're a loyal Death Eater who would do anything for Antonin Dolohov and your Dark Lord. Is that what I've got wrong? Do you have another master you answer to?"

Snape's lips were curling in a snarl, his weight shifting forward to crowd her space when the fireplace roared to life under the stone mantle. There hadn't been a single burning ember in the grate moments before, but now the fireplace jumped to life with a flurry of green flames that signified the arrival of someone by Floo. Hermione and Snape whipped their heads to watch as Antonin Dolohov stepped onto the rug and tugged at his cloak in a haughty manner to dislodge the ash that clung to the dark wool.

The room collectively paused. Snape aborted his advance on Hermione and lowered his wand. Hermione stepped back from her now incensed former professor. Dolohov straightened to his full height as he took in the sight of them. Snape in his frock coat. Hermione in her transfigured dress. The garish maroon color scheme of the room around them.

"Ready to go, _pchelka_?" Dolohov asked, his voice curiously light. His hands were empty. His expression blank.

Hermione could think of nothing to do but nod.

* * *

Hermione was intensely grateful that it had been Snape, not Dolohov, who had orchestrated her rude awakening that morning.

Snape's grip on her arms had been tight and uncomfortable when he had hauled her from bed, his touch brooking no room for argument. Dolohov's grip on her arm, by contrast, was _bruising_.

Dolohov Keep was the same as they left it, and Hermione stumbled along after Antonin as he pulled her down corridors that she felt she should have remembered from her brief prior stay, but didn't. Her bare feet were freezing against the flagstone and she kept tripping over the lip of the many rugs—she would have given almost anything, in that moment, to reclaim possession of the trainers that somehow got lost in her initial transport to Hogwarts. The current situation was no less absurd than any other she had been subjected to since her capture; the thought that Dolohov could have easily restrained her using magic instead of his bare hand didn't even cross her mind.

Side-along apparition with the man had felt more suffocating than she had ever remembered it.

"I am perfectly capable of following without you manhandling me!" Hermione snapped, her bicep going numb under the wizard's white-knuckled grip.

Dolohov whipped around and faced her so fast she crashed into his chest, her nose slamming painfully into his shoulder at his abrupt stop.

Flinching back, Hermione barely felt his awful grip on her arm when she saw his face.

Dolohov looked _furious_.

He was covered from neck to toe, once again, in thick traveling robes and dragonhide boots; his shirt was buttoned to the collar, his hair loose around his jaw, and his hands were encased in smart leather gloves that probably cost more than every possession Hermione now owned. Despite this, there was something about his skin that looked _wrong_. It was flushed and finely-veined as if it had been recently healed of some injury, and his eyes—his eyes. There was no light there, no flash of humanity, nothing but pure, potent rage. "I don't particularly care what you're capable of or what your preferences on being touched are," he growled, his accent thicker in his anger. "You are _mine_ and I will touch you as I please, do you understand?"

Something dull and poisonous, something like fear, rose to a knot in Hermione's chest. She wasn't sure what was worse, the pounding of her speeding heart or the painful throb in her arm where Dolohov grabbed her. Memories of him poised above her in that bed at Malfoy Manor rose to the forefront of her mind as she took in his murderous expression. Something about it combined with his blatant possessiveness of her frightened her. Concerned her. Made her want to ask questions.

She didn't. She just nodded, slowly, willing to give him anything in that moment to calm him down.

The bond wouldn't let him hurt her, not really—but he could probably still get a few good licks in before succumbing to the pain he would inflict.

"This little bond between us, this _perversion_ —" he spat the word like it offended him, "—won't be going away anytime soon. I can't hurt you, no, not like I want to." He tilted his head closer to hers, their foreheads almost touching in another gross parody of intimacy. "But no one else will be touching you, either."

Alarm wasn't a strong enough descriptor to put name to what was coursing through the young witch at her captor's words. Physical sensation was almost unbearable; the cold of the Keep's hallway, the prickle of the rug beneath her toes, the rolling heat emanating from Dolohov as he pressed close to her…it was too much. _He_ was too much.

"No one is going to touch me," she placated clumsily, her voice small and foreign to her own ears. Talking madmen off the proverbial ledge wasn't her specialty—but if it meant her continued survival, then goddamn, she'd try.

"No one?" he asked, giving her arm a hard shake for emphasis.

Hermione's curls danced around her shoulders as she frantically shook her head. "No one," she confirmed. _Not even you_ , she wanted to add. She didn't, though. She knew better.

Something pleased and wicked curled Dolohov's mouth. "No one _but_ me," he corrected. Hermione wondered if he could glean her thoughts as easily as he could read the terror on her face. _Was the bond that strong already? Just how much of me can he feel?_

Whatever he was looking for in her whiskey eyes he found, and with a single nod he whipped around and continued pulling her through the halls of his home as if they had never stopped. "I'll be keeping you close, witch, until I decide what to do with you," he said conversationally. "My father told me to take you and run, but I know better. Dolohovs don't run."

A door to their upcoming right flew open with a careless flick of his empty hand, and he shoved her inside without much ceremony before crowding in behind her. Hermione barely registered that she was back in his private bedroom before the heavy door swung closed with a decisive click. "Play your part wisely, little witch," Dolohov warned, his hand releasing his arm as he reached up to cup at her jaw. "I intend on making it out of our little meeting with the Dark Lord alive, and if you do too, you'll do _everything I say_. _Ponimayesh?_ "

 _Meeting with the Dark Lord?_ A frantic coil of fear crashed over Hermione and she stumbled back. Dolohov merely dogged her steps and kept her close, his hand still deceptively gentle on her face.

She didn't even feel it when he swept closer and pressed his lips hard against hers, stealing a kiss with as much anger as one would steal a punch to the gut. She couldn't think. She couldn't feel.

All she could do was panic.

* * *

 **A/N: oh no, Dolohov has a new plan! What do you think will happen when Hermione is dragged before Voldemort for the first time? How can Dolohov possibly prevent them from both being killed? (Hermione will not like the plan, she will not like it _at all_ )**

 **Also, I hope my transliteration from Cyrillic to the English alphabet isn't too awful. I can read bits and pieces of Russian myself, but I'm guessing most readers wouldn't understand enough of Cyrillic to be able to sound-out the words. In the mean time I'm sounding out the words and trying to type out their English equivalent, not sure if its working. I can change it if it's too distracting.**

 **A million thanks and good wishes to everyone who has been following along! Take care xx**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: quick note~ A big thanks to Gaerven and a guest reviewer for correcting my wonky Russian-to-English transliteration/conjugation! I went back and corrected the last chapter. I'm still learning Russian as a second language so thank you for being patient with me.**

* * *

Hermione's first kiss had been at the Yule Ball her fourth year—Viktor Krum, the handsome Quidditch star who had accompanied her, had backed her against a corridor wall between songs and kissed her with such gentleness that it had almost made up for Ron's rudeness to her after the fact. She had been surprised, flustered, and more than a little aware of the sweat at the back of her neck and on her upper lip. Viktor's tongue felt curious and he tasted like mint. She hadn't a single clue what to do with her hands, but by the time the older wizard had pulled back, her small fists were clutching at his robes as if she wasn't sure whether to pull him closer or push him away. That kiss had been a small match sparking, and in the privacy of her dormitory later that night, she had touched her lips to the back of her hand and wondered if kisses would always feel that warm.

Her second kiss had been George Weasley—not that she would ever tell a soul. That was a story for another day, and most importantly, it was one she would _never ever_ tell Ron. George's kiss had been quick and hot and fleeting. A firework. When he and Fred left in their typical showman-manner during her fifth year, the sight of the fireworks on the school grounds had felt almost nostalgic.

Then there was Ron. Their first kiss had been just a few days after they went on the run with Harry, and it had been quick, almost playful, and comfortable. She had laughed at some inane remark of his, and in that moment, looking up at him in the soft light of the tent, he had carefully leant in and pressed his lips against hers. _"There, we've done it,"_ he declared with an easy smile, settling back onto the table's bench as if that solved things between them. _"I'd be a fool not to kiss a girl who looked at me like that, and you've been looking for months now, Mione."_ Ron had always had the ability to take her to another place when he looked at her with such easy affection, all twinkling eyes and dimples; for one moment, Hermione had forgotten they were hiding in the shadow of war, hungry, and afraid.

The second kiss had been all her. She had curled her hands in his jumper and all but hauled him across the table, and by the time they heard Harry's heavy footsteps by the entrance of the tent Hermione had been sitting on the table with Ron between her thighs, his tongue in her mouth and his big hands tangled up in her hair. Hermione stopped counting her kisses after that, but few had been as memorable as that first one. Ron was a gentle flicker of candle's flame in her heart, and ever since he caught her attention first year, it hadn't extinguished or dimmed a single bit.

If Ron's kiss was a candle, Antonin's was a fucking _wildfire_.

Hermione felt so many things at once that she couldn't _think_ —he was everywhere, his hands, his tongue, the hard line of his body fever-hot against hers. There was a hand around her throat and she couldn't breathe. There was a door at her back and she couldn't retreat. Teeth on her bottom lip. A thigh hitching between hers. He was violent, demanding, and _took took took_ ; he touched her like he owned her and tasted her like he was the only one who ever would. The flare of white-hot terror was mingling with the sudden physical sensation low in her gut, and the hard grit of fearful muscles became the sweet, aching clench of something _else_. She hated him. She hated him _so much_.

Their blood bond, that awful ward between them that was usually dormant in her mind, blazed like a live wire, sparking, crackling, _aflame_. Hermione wasn't sure which emotions were her own any more—she was afraid, she was jealous, she was angry-disgusted-aroused. Antonin Dolohov, feared Death Eater and dark wizard renowned for his cruelty, was sucking at Hermione's tongue with his hand around her neck and she _liked it_.

Dolohov pulled back with a final bite and stepped away, his thigh falling away from the apex of hers and his touch leaving her skin as easily as he found it. Her eyes stayed closed and she didn't dare step away from the bedroom door—she couldn't look at him, couldn't stand to see his swollen lips and the wild, angry look in his dark eyes. Didn't want to see the muss of his hair where she gripped it. Didn't want to see the skew of his cloak where she nearly ripped it off his shoulders.

In her mind's eye, she pictured him on fire. She wanted to see him burning to death, she decided, and perishing in the flames of Hell for everything he had ever dared to put her through.

Hermione Granger curled her hands into fists and licked her lips. She tried very hard not to remember her dream, tried not to remember Dolohov showing her just what his mouth could do when it wasn't curling around dark curses or spitting evil, vile things at her. She tried to set aside her fear and confusion and not feel the sudden, urgent pulse of want between her trembling thighs. Now was not the time to analyze what any of this meant, and if Hermione was nothing else, she was pragmatic. Logical. The kiss was a one-off side effect of sudden, intense emotion, a fluke in the greater scheme of things. It didn't mean anything. It wouldn't happen again.

She kept her eyes closed. Took a breath. Ignored the screaming in her mind and the relentless, urgent pull of the bond. "You are taking me before Voldemort," she stated. His earlier words hadn't been forgotten—she was proud, for a fleeting moment, at how low and steady her voice sounded.

She felt more than heard Dolohov step away from her completely, his burning heat retreating into the bedroom she refused to look at. " _Da_."

She opened her eyes after a fortifying breath and tracked her captor's form as he shed his cloak by the bed, his movements easy and unhurried as if he hadn't been kissing her with _anger-passion-fire_ just moments before. "You better have a plan, Antonin," she bit out, deciding in that second to put the kiss out of her thoughts as fast as she could. There were more pressing things to worry about, and her constant fear was beginning to dull the more she was exposed to his volatile temper. "I don't intend on dying on the Manor's drawing room floor. Been there, done that, got the damn scar."

Dolohov was tugging off his gloves with his teeth, and he smiled around the leather as he worked the material off each long finger. "I told you to play your part, no? Do as I say."

Hermione's fisted hands settled on her hips, and just as she had countless times in the past, she swept aside her burning misgivings and stuttering heart to focus on the problem presented before her. If they were to go before Lord Voldemort they needed a plan, and a good one, because any outcome she could imagine ended with the both of them dead: he for his presumed disloyalty, she for her muggleborn status as Harry Potter's best friend, and the both of them for the blood bond that tied their fates together. It didn't matter which of them the Killing Curse struck first. They'd both fall cold to the floor.

Steel resolve took Hermione's attention away from her tingling lips and rolling anxiety. "So what do you say?"

* * *

Ron thought he was being rather level-headed about the whole thing, really.

Sure, the situation sucked big, hairy bollocks and kept him up at night, his teeth clenching down hard on his pillow to stifle the wracking, full-body sobs that always seemed to visit him just before sleep—he hated every minute that he was away from Hermione, and the thought of her in that damned Manor alone made him feel nearly violent with aching sickness. Who knew what those dogs were doing to her—she was young, pretty, and _Harry Potter's best friend_. A muggleborn. A stunningly powerful, intelligent muggleborn with a temper nearly as hot as Harry's and a mouth that tended to run without her thinking first. Surely they'd kill her. She was everything the Death Eaters hated—feared, even—there was no way she'd survive a single night in their captivity. His hand hadn't closed tight enough around hers in that drawing room, and when Lestrange had hit Dobby with that knife, the elf's small but dense form knocking back into his had been just enough to make his grip falter. Dobby had managed to facilitate their escape, yeah, but Hermione had been left behind. A bleeding, crying Hermione. _Hurt_.

Despite it all, they couldn't risk going after her. The move made sense from an emotional standpoint, but strategically, it was _suicide_. This was war. He and Harry were on the frontlines. Exposing themselves this late in the game could only mean their capture, and Ron knew in his bones they wouldn't get lucky and escape if it happened again. Harry would die, Voldemort would win, and everything— _everything Hermione went through,_ his mind whispered—would be for nothing. They all had little roles, they did, in their cozy trio. Harry was the spearhead, the beacon of hope and catalyst of action. Hermione was the brains, the forethought, the firepower. Ron was the cultural guide, the comedic relief, the strategist. That's how things worked. That's how things _always_ worked.

Harry, bless him, didn't care much for strategic moves or roles or the whole damn war, it seemed, not where his friend was concerned. "I swear to God, Ron," Harry seethed, his dinner chair knocked back behind him and the dining area of Shell Cottage deadly quiet in the wake of his outburst, "if you don't come with me to Hogwarts _I will go alone_. I will take out every Death Eater and student and bloody _statue_ that stands between me and Hermione, and there is nothing you can do to stop me—"

Bill was rising from his chair, his dinner forgotten on his plate in the wake of the sudden yelling. "Now listen, Harry—"

Luna's voice was still airy and light, and if Ron hadn't seen it for himself, he never would have imagined that Loony Lovegood could be as calm as she was in the face of Harry's explosive anger. Harry's magic was going haywire around them, but Luna didn't even flinch when her potatoes exploded in a burst of uncontrolled magic and splattered to her chest. "Ron is right, Harry, you shouldn't put yourself in danger—"

Fleur had retreated to the kitchen. Griphook was watching the exchange with something resembling grim satisfaction. Mr. Ollivander kept shoveling peas into his mouth like they were the last he would ever get.

Ron finished off his share of venison. He had grown used to Harry's temper over the years—the Chosen One would tire himself out eventually. Ginny always did as a toddler when she kicked a fuss.

The fighting and yelling rose to a hollering crescendo some minutes later. Harry was red-faced and panting, his glasses askew and shirt wet where his water glass had tipped. Bill was halfway out of his chair, one calming hand extended to Harry, something resembling pity sparking in his blue eyes. Luna was delicately picking the potatoes off of her blouse and eating it. Fleur lurked by the door, one delicate hand perched on the pregnant swell of her abdomen. Ron pulled Harry's plate over from across the table and laid it atop his empty one, going to town immediately— _it's not like the prat is going to eat after all that_ , he thought.

"How could you just leave her, Ron?" Harry asked, his voice as broken as the betrayed expression on his face. "It's _Hermione_. Herb said she was at Hogwarts—we actually have _intel_ now—how could you just leave her there to die?"

In the hours after Herb's visit, Ron had heard that phrase a lot. Herb said this, Herb said that—the house elf had been rather chatty, but for all of its squeaky words Ron hadn't been convinced the elf was telling the whole truth. When asked about specifics— _who had her? Why was she at Hogwarts? Who was her captor?_ —Herb hedged harder than a double agent. Ron was convinced that Hermione had, indeed, sent the elf to Shell Cottage to warn Bill and Fleur, that much was clear. But was she forced to do so under duress? What if it was a trap?

Ron swallowed around the last of Harry's potatoes and settled his fork neatly beside his plate. There was something awful and numb settling in his gut where hunger had been, but he knew that if he examined the feeling too closely he would fall into the same kind of despair that shined so brightly out of Harry's eyes. "I don't want to leave Mione," he admitted quietly, forcing his eyes to meet those of his best friend. "Dammit, Harry, _I love her_. We need her with us for our mission, but I also know how it would end if we went to Hogwarts. It's the middle of term and the place is crawling with Death Eaters. If she isn't dead yet, they aren't going to kill her. She's worth more to them alive than she is dead."

 _As bait_ , hung the implication, heavy and unspoken in the air between them. Ron pressed on. "We got lucky at Malfoy Manor and it won't happen again. You and Hermione survived without me when I had my little… _breakdown_ …and you and I will survive without her this time around. I hate saying it, mate, but you know it's true."

Harry picked his fallen chair off the floor and sunk into it, defeat slumping his shoulders and tugging at his mouth. Ron hated that expression on Harry's face. "We can't just leave her there," he said fiercely, his voice more calm than before. "You know that. _Please_ say you know that."

Ron considered his friend. He ignored his brother and everyone else at the table—for one moment, it was just he and Harry, caught in a whirlwind of pain as they stared each other down over the remains of the dinner roast. Harry was serious, Ron realized. Harry _would_ leave alone and storm Hogwarts by himself if Ron wasn't there at his side—and the war would end. There wasn't a single thing Ron could say that would change his mind, and even though every instinct Ron possessed warned him not to, Ron jerked his head in a single, pained nod.

"Okay, then," he breathed, clapping his hands to his thighs as he sat back. "So we're going to Hogwarts to save Hermione. What next?"

The relieved smile Harry shot him across the table made Ron feel as if they were boys again—just two partners in crime, really, sneaking smiles and going on adventures after dark under the invisibility cloak. "I have absolutely no idea," Harry admitted.

Bill cleared his throat and eased a shaking hand through his low ponytail. His eyes were flickering to Fleur where she hovered by the door, and it was with an uneasy expression he addressed the table at large. "First let's get Luna a napkin, I think. Griphook, if you'll please—"

Every sparking nerve in Ron's body was telling him this was a bad idea. But he couldn't help the secret relief he felt at the notion of finally doing something—bad idea or not, he and Harry were coming for Hermione.

Harry picked up his discarded fork, heedless of his own wet shirt, and looked bewildered at the disappearance of his dinner. Ron laughed and moved to serve him again. Luna asked Mr. Ollivander to pass the peas. Griphook shuffled off to his room. Fleur reclaimed her seat and set a bottle of elven wine on the table. Bill gratefully poured himself a glass.

A shaky truce had settled over Shell Cottage and a storm raged outside.

* * *

Hermione remembered many things about the imposter Professor Moody, but what she remembered most were his _lessons_. Even years after the fact she could see those spiders in their glass bell jars, dancing-writhing-dying with each cast of the Unforgivable Curses in her darkest nightmares. She had been a terrified fifteen year old girl, then, and the sight of _Avada Kedavra's_ emerald green light had been the most brilliant, awful display of magic she had ever seen. Green like envy, like lush grass, like Harry Potter's eyes. Gorgeous and stunning and _dark_ , the heavy stench of sulfur wafting to her seat after the curses had been cast rapidly from Moody's wand in quick succession. It had been easy, then, even with her horror, to understand why some wizards became so fascinated with Dark magic.

Hermione also remembered how she changed her mind not five minutes after Moody's macabre display. The imposter had demanded they get up, vanished their desks, and made them form a line. _"The Ministry might frown on me doing this,"_ he had barked, his awful blue eye swiveling madly in the false socket, _"but you need to learn how to deal with the Unforgiveables when they're cast your way. Constant vigilance!"_ Half the class had jumped. _"Today I'm going to show you how to resist the Imperius Curse. Potter—you're first."_

That had been the first—and only time—Hermione had ever being Imperiused.

Now she would have to suffer it again.

The scene was comical. Hermione was sitting on Dolohov's bed with her back to the pillows, her hands a worried tangle in her lap as he explained his plan to her. Once divested of his cloak, gloves, and having popped the first few buttons of his shirt, Hermione got a look at the changed skin she had spied earlier. Dolohov was healing from something, most likely burns; after Harry's attempt at the first trial at the Triwizard Tournament their fourth year, he had enthusiastically pulled up his robes and shown she and Ron the scaly, flushed skin of his back where the horntail had scalded him. _"Madam Pomfrey said it'll fade in a few days,"_ Harry had laughed, flinching away when Ron curiously jabbed at the discoloration. _"Burn salve works wonders, but not miracles apparently."_ Where had Dolohov been that he had suffered such extensive burns? It wasn't her place to ask—she was doubtful he'd tell her if she did—so she simply stared and kept her mouth shut. The wizard managed to hold his attractive physical qualities even when injured, whereas most would simply inspire intrigue at best or disgust at worst. Hermione tried very, very hard not to think about what he had looked like with her blood smeared over his mouth and dripping from the ends of his dark hair. Red was his color.

Dolohov was sitting on the other end of the bed, his back to the fire his elf had lit, his legs crossed and elbows perched on his cocked knees as he explained his plan. He moved his hands as he spoke. His eyes didn't leave hers. There was something deceptively eager and boyish about his manner, and the disturbing contrast with the dark, formidable man who had tortured her at Malfoy Manor made her stomach flip.

If they hadn't been discussing how he was going to put her under the Imperius Curse she would have felt disturbingly flattered at his absolute, unwavering attention.

"There is no way this is going to work," Hermione heard herself say. The situation was too _weird_ —maybe Snape had knocked her out cold in his attempts to pull her from bed that morning and she was hallucinating? She and Dolohov, sitting on his bed chatting about Unforgiveables as if the topic was nothing more than usual sleepover banter. She started at the thought… _Dolohov_ and _sleepover_ should never occupy the same space in her thoughts, ever. For any reason.

Dolohov's smile was devilish. "It's going to work, _pchelka_. The hard part is going to be getting Severus to agree, but that won't be a problem. Not with what I'm holding over him, anyway."

Hermione frowned. "What do you mean? Did you blackmail him for his help in the first place when you went galloping off to who knows where?"

Dolohov's smile dropped. "We're both dangerous men with many secrets."

Hermione couldn't resist rolling her eyes at his deliberate vagueness. Here she was, sitting on his bed and giving him sass like any of this was _normal_. He was as likely to lunge at her with his hands ready for murder-suicide as he was to humor her contrary nature. "Where _did_ you go?"

"I visited my father."

She was stunned he answered and he looked just as surprised as she did. She pressed on before he could collect himself. "Your father?" she couldn't remember reading about Dolohov's family in any of the articles the _Prophet_ had run on him after his escape from Azkaban. "You're bound to a witch you hate, we're in the middle of a war, and you leave the protection of your home to see your father. Why?"

Dolohov laced his fingers and brought his hands to his jaw, pressing at his pursed lips with his thumbs as he considered whether or not to answer. His eyes flickered away from hers and considered the duvet. "Not tonight," he rasped after a few moments deliberation. Something lighter touched his expression and he dropped his hands again, tilting his head conspiratorially toward her. "What do you know about Lucius Malfoy?" he asked.

Hermione couldn't be any more puzzled than she was at that very moment. "What does he have to do with any of this?"

Dolohov looked years younger when he smiled at her like that, the edge of cruelty gone from his gaze and the shadows of the room playing delicately over the hollows of his scruffy cheeks. Hermione shivered and tugged at her dress's collar. "Everything," Dolohov responded. "We knew each other as boys. I have a… _reputation_ among the Death Eaters. I won't bore you with the details—just know that this perception they hold is the exact reason the Dark Lord isn't hunting us both. I managed to convince Lucius that me taking you from the Manor was just an extension of an interrogation technique and that I'd be returning soon with all of your memories of Potter sealed in a neat little flask. I am not the Dark Lord's preferred interrogator in the first place—third on that particular pecking order, really—so it shouldn't be a surprise to him that it's taking me longer than he would have wanted."

Hermione was beginning to grasp at what Dolohov was saying. "Voldemort doesn't know you've defected," she began carefully, "therefore he doesn't know I forced a bond on you to secure my safety. If he thinks I'm still your prisoner and just a particularly tough victim to crack—"

"—then I should be able to waltz in with you on my arm and play the room like a _domra_ ," Dolohov finished.

"I don't want you to Imperius me," Hermione said honestly. It had been over a week since Dolohov had whisked her away from the Manor—surely that was too long for any sort of unconventional "interrogation" the Death Eaters would be familiar with.

Dolohov's good humor dropped. "I am not giving you a choice."

"You can't hurt me," she needlessly reminded him, clutching at any reason to make this plan fail. She was already at his mercy, at the whims of his madness and obsession—she didn't want to be under his complete, utter control as well. "Doesn't casting this on me count? The blood bond won't let you."

"I will be making an Unbreakable Vow to Severus that you will not come to harm by my will while I have you under the curse. I can still hurt you with only the bond between us…I hurt myself in the process, but it can be done. The Vow will satisfy the conditions of our bond and allow the curse to take hold."

Dolohov made it sound so easy, so _natural_ , for him to take ownership of her mind and body like she was his puppet. It made her ill. "Voldemort won't care if I'm under your curse. He'll still demand the memories and you know as well as I do that I won't give them up for anything."

"That's where your Vow to Severus will come in," Dolohov said simply.

"The Vow that I won't tell Voldemort anything important that could hurt Harry, right." Hermione didn't like the sound of this. "That isn't going to fly so smoothly. He'll know something is up and he'll torture me for the truth. Kind of hard to hide the bond between us if you're twitching on the ground beside me, isn't it?"

Dolohov laughed, then, honestly laughed, and slapped his hands to the bed like she was a source of endless amusement. He looked at her with something that resembled savage fondness and smiled with his teeth. She hated him. "I've told you, that's where _Draco_ comes in."

Hermione wasn't sure what she wanted more—the conversation to drop or for Dolohov's pretty head mounted on a sharp pike. It was nearly noon, if the play of sunlight through the half-shuttered window was any indication, and her stomach was beginning to ache with hunger. She caught herself before she asked; the lines were blurring rapidly between them, but she still had her wits about her enough to realize that she couldn't exactly demand he feed her. His every kindness was an exercise in the depth of his madness…she was only alive because he couldn't kill her how he wanted. She _had_ to remember this.

Dolohov seemed to sense her sudden weariness and straightened from his easy slouch, his body unfolding off the bed with a grace that would have made a languid housecat jealous. "Back to your cage, _pchelka_ ," he rumbled, referencing the spare room he had kept her in last time. "Unless you want to stay in my bed, of course."

And just like that, the air was too thick to breathe and Hermione was drowning in the dark brown aggression of Dolohov's eyes. The sudden, torrid kiss had been forgotten in the face of their next moves as Britain's most ill-matched team, but now it was all she could think about. Hermione gulped her heart back into her chest and tried to will away her cheeks' cherry flush with concentrated power of will. Dolohov stalked around the side of the bed and loomed over her as if her internal struggle was of no consequence to him. "Maybe I'll let you stay if you ask nicely," he continued conversationally, his hands once again deceptively empty and loose by his sides. "Maybe this aberrant little blood bond you've forced on me has made me ache for you in my absence. Could you feel me while I was in Novosibirsk, _malysh_? Could you feel all the fire when it took me?"

Hermione didn't respond. She felt like a mouse in a trap—she could do nothing but stare dumbly at the fireplace on the wall opposite as Dolohov sank his knees to the bed next to her and leaned close, one corded arm taking his weight on the mattress as he settled his chin right on her shoulder beside her ear. His voice was a rough whisper, now, and if she dared look down at her lap she would have seen his fingertips idly tracing the hem of the dress stretched over her thighs. "I could feel you," he confessed, his voice dark and soft. "Felt you _burn_. Did Severus make you blush this pretty when he smoothed his palms between your legs and made you squirm?"

If confusion was hot and dark, then awareness was cold, bright, and as uncomfortable as weathering a snow storm in the nude. The mention of him _feeling_ her and Snape brought her up short; did he think—did he really think that _Snape_ —

"Professor Snape didn't touch me," she blurted. The outrage and indignation colored her tone as crimson as her face, and when she whipped around to face him head-on, Dolohov's mouth was centimeters from her own. His eyebrows raised at her declaration. "Whatever you _think_ you felt is wrong." Snape's earlier words in his sitting room came back in a warped fashion out of her mouth; she hoped that the chastising effect was the same. This conversation had already played out, in some fashion, in the hallway and near the door—Hermione had no want to redo it now, with a bed underneath them and Dolohov's hands creeping up her dress. The ward mark on her chest was curiously throbbing when Dolohov abruptly pulled away.

"Up," he demanded, turning to the door so sharply on his heels he would have scrapped the floor with his boots had a rug not been beneath him. "Back to your cage. Let's go."

Hermione wobbled off the bed and followed unsteadily behind him as he led her back to the spare room, trying desperately to quash the sense of loss she felt at having to leave his personal space.

 _Monster, bigot, evil, devil_ , she chanted in her thoughts, her eyes glued to his wide shoulders as they approached the spare room's door.

Her captor had a handsome face and stimulating voice, but on the inside his soul was a rotten black.

* * *

 **A/N: quick housekeeping for anyone confused: I'm playing fast and loose with the Deathly Hallows timeline, y'all, so this is some context I may not have been able to get across:**

 **\- at this point in the timeline, Ron has already left Harry and Hermione in a fit of rage and came back to them. The locket is destroyed and Griphook has the sword of Gryffindor. Ron leaving was the "breakdown" he referenced. Harry was led to the sword by Snape's doe patronus, so all three of them know there's someone mysterious looking out for their wellbeing.**

 **\- this is taking place some time in November. I know in the books Harry and Hermione were by themselves until after Christmas (the whole thing at Bathilda Bagshot's house in Godric's Hollow) but for the purposes of this tale it's just late fall.**

 **\- Antonin's "reputation" among the Death Eaters was mentioned last chapter. He's flighty, reactionary, kind of a loose canon. Him skiving off with a prisoner is the kind of cruelty they would expect from him, so Voldemort will be more willing to hear him out if he answers his summons and comes crawling back.**

 **So there we have it! Dolohov is going to Imperius Hermione, and they're both going to make Vows to Severus to make sure everything goes smoothly. How does Draco play into this? What about Hermione's wand? What's going on over at Hogwarts with the rest of the students? (I am having way too much fun writing this lmao)**

 **Thank you to everyone who has been following, favoriting, and reviewing! I appreciate all the love. Take care xx**


	14. Chapter 14

" _You better have a plan, Antonin."_

The girl's voice was ringing in his thoughts like a high, clear bell—no matter how forcefully he pressed at his ears or focused his attention elsewhere, her offhand, grouchy comment came circling back like a bird of prey over a barren wasteland. There was nowhere to hide from her—no trees to press against, no brush to bury under—and with each pass of her feminine, snappy tone in his skull he felt her metaphorical talons dig themselves deeper into his back. First it had been her fire, then the blood bond…but now, after so many interactions that have left him vivacious and wanting, the girl needed nothing but a toss of her hair and a prim retort to keep him ensnared.

The girl. His witch. _Hermione_.

He had banished the girl back to her rooms shortly after the conclusion of their _little chat_ , and now that his bedroom was bereft of her he found himself unable to focus on anything but the pooling warmth near the headboard where she had sat and the snarled, tawny curl of hair that had shaken loose from her veritable mane to lay innocently on one of his pillows. He collapsed back against them and wound the single strand of her hair around his finger as he contemplated how to proceed with her—taking her before his Lord was one thing, but navigating the waves of her quick temper with the ship of his battered self-control was another thing altogether. Seven hells, he had _kissed_ the girl.

With a lazy gesture of his hand, Antonin wandlessly bid the window against the far wall to open. A rush of cool, late-November air rushed in and pricked at his healing skin as he remembered a touch of a different kind; _nothing_ about his witch had been cold. Her skin, her mouth, the soft plush of her form against his—she had been burning hot. He recalled the kiss with a knot in his belly and a discomfiting stir somewhere below his belt, a physical reminder of how depraved he was to lust for her. Two decades his junior and his effective prisoner of war…and he had never, not a single time in his entire wretched life, wanted something, some _one_ , so fiercely. Warring desires perverted themselves into a snarled tie as he considered everything he wanted to do to her—he wanted to rile her up, hurt her, kill her, _feel_ her—

Dolohov twisted her abandoned strand of hair so tightly around his fingertip that circulation ceased and the nail bed began to pale with the pressure. He didn't know what to do about his witch or what path to take beyond the obvious; he would take her before his Lord and attempt to buy them more time to find a way out of this bonding mess, but what would happen after? Assuming that the Dark Lord granted Antonin keep the girl for whatever purpose, what path would their immoral relationship take? It would end in death, of that Antonin was certain. The girl's blood was too pretty to not spill over his hands one last, final time.

And the way she said his given name—oh gods, _oh fuck_ , fuck fuck fuck. He could still remember bidding her to say it as a plea back in that cramped bedroom at Malfoy Manor. She hardly addressed him, and when she did it was always by his family moniker; but earlier, her tone sharp and warning him to have a plan? He had barely restrained himself from throwing her against the door once more. He wanted to explore all the delicious ways she would say his name if he touched her just right. _Wicked, evil, vile man_ , he playfully admonished himself. He wondered idly what it would sound like for his witch to call him such things, a teasing lilt to her voice as she wrapped her legs around his waist. _How would her voice hitch if I wrapped my hands around her neck just so, strangling her words and confirming them with a single gesture?_

Dolohov released the girl's strand of hair from around his fingertip and rolled over on the bed to his front, his face pressed insistently into the pillows while his cock throbbed painfully against the mattress. Frigid air wafted from the open window and did nothing to cool the burning he felt at his every last nerve ending. Hunger panged in his gut. His healing skin pricked with discomfort. His mind, a raging hurricane of want and anger, begged for him to take his wand in his palm. He wanted to lash out. Hurt. _Destroy_.

All in good time. Lulled despite his dilemma, Dolohov sank into an uneasy sleep while the late afternoon sun crept in slow inches across the shadowed floor.

* * *

Hermione was crawling out of her skin.

 _Didn't the horrible man_ eat _?_ she thought with exasperation and more than a little touch of venom. The early hours of the evening were beginning to creep closer and the insistent hunger that had been tugging relentlessly at her gut since lunchtime hadn't abated in the slightest. Dolohov's elf Dessy had brought her breads, fruits, cheeses, and most recently a thick stew at her request, but despite having gobbled it all down with an enthusiasm Ron would have approved of, the nagging hunger had stayed constant. Her emotions had been a cycling whirlwind after talking with her captor earlier, so she hadn't quite connected the feeling with its apparent cause, then. Snape's words back at Hogwarts came ringing back after what seemed like hours of deliberation— _it's Dolohov_.

The Death Eater was hungry, ravenously so, and for some godforsaken reason the bloody bastard wouldn't give her a rest and just _fucking eat_.

 _As if I needed any more reason to hate this bond_ , Hermione griped internally, her feet kicking at the assembled trinkets she had brought to the rug to practice her wandless magic on. The unsteady progress she had managed to foster in Snape's rooms at Hogwarts was already beginning to lag as her attention became more and more split due to the physical ache she couldn't get rid of; it reminded her of the hunger she had often felt in the tent with Harry and Ron, and that was _not_ a memory she wished to linger on any longer than absolutely necessary. The thought of Ron brought on feelings of guilt so intense they nearly rivalled the burning ache in her belly.

"Dessy!" Hermione snapped, climbing to her feet and anchoring her hands to her hips.

The house elf popped into existence just a hair from the door, and her milky eyes were wide as they considered the Keep's irate prisoner. "Yes, Miss?"

"Assuming the awful bastard hasn't instigated any rules against it, I want you to take me to the kitchen. Now," Hermione ordered. She was too irritated and hungry to be appalled at her own lack of manners—perhaps later she'd recall this interaction and cringe in embarrassment for the return of her bossiness.

Dessy cocked her head and allowed her ears to flap comically at the jerky motion. Twisting her hands in front of her, Dessy asked, "What business does Miss have with the kitchen?"

"Take me and find out," came Hermione's snappy retort. "I'm going to help you serve your Master." She barely managed to restrain the eye roll that begged to accompany that statement.

Dessy, on the other hand, seemed very pleased. "Yes, _good_!" the elf squeaked, creeping closer and taking one of Hermione's small hands in its comparatively bigger one. "Miss Mudblood knows her place in the Keep, yes, _excellent_. Master wants after Miss's obedience, yes he does…"

A single breath and a nauseating crack later, and Hermione found herself apparated into the middle of a large, ancient-looking kitchen.

Hermione stumbled away from Dessy and caught her breath as she surveyed her new surroundings—side-along apparition had never been her favorite, and somehow, the squeezing sensation was amplified when brought about by an elf. Slightly out of breath and still aching with hunger, Hermione began to visually explore the kitchen in preparation for what she was about to do. _Oh, if Harry and Ron could see me now,_ she mused. They would probably be horrified—and amused. _Gits_.

The kitchen had a vaulted ceiling supported by a crossing of several wooden beams, and the windows lining the far wall had diagonal panes that cut the lines of residual sunlight as it sunk beyond the horizon's final line. The countertops were dark marble, the floors bare flagstone, and the stove was an antique that Hermione's mother would have crowed over. No doubt it wasn't hooked up to any electrical or gas lines, not in this wizarding home—fire and heat could be conjured on command. The larder was a long cabinet on the far wall that resembled a small pantry, and the inside was cooled with charms to keep the vegetables and meats fresh. Flatware and glasses could be seen glinting in upper cabinets behind doors of stylized glass. Torches on the walls burned merrily in their sconces. A great fireplace, big enough to rival that of Hogwarts common rooms, was situated across from the stove. In front of it, a small table just tall enough to seat an elf and three crouched guests loomed quietly.

Hermione was disgusted by how utterly _charming_ the space was.

"Right," Hermione announced, slapping her palms definitively against her thighs. "Let's get to it."

Ten minutes later, Hermione was holding an absolute monster of a sandwich. Multiple layers, meat, and nearly every cut vegetable Hermione could get her hands on—the layer of herbed goat cheese was spread so thickly Hermione felt her arteries clog just looking at it. She wasn't sure what brought about the notion, but Hermione hadn't trusted that Dessy would be able to apply the appropriate amount of insistence to get Dolohov to eat on command, as subservient as she was to her Master…Hermione, on the other hand, was ready to hand-deliver the fat stack of bread and filling and _shove_ it down the surly Death Eater's throat if need be. She'd do it cheerfully. Humming all the way, perhaps.

Anything to abate this sickening hunger that was surely rotting her from the inside out.

"Alright, Dessy," Hermione addressed the joyful elf. Dessy was merrily levitating the unused ingredients back into the larder, but she turned at Hermione's light tone. "I want you to take me directly to Dolohov's rooms, please. Or wherever he happens to be in the Keep."

"Dessy cannot," the elf warned, stepping closer to Hermione and reaching for the sandwich. "Dessy has been ordered to return Young Miss to her rooms. Master Antonin won't like the intrusion, no he will not—"

Hermione held the plate beyond the elf's reach and cocked a single eyebrow. "You'd really deprive me of the chance to serve your favored Master, Dessy?" She knew she was laying it on thick—seven hells, she would have laced the sandwich with rat poison if she thought she could get away with it and live—but Hermione didn't want to take any chances. Dessy would most likely offer the food and do nothing else. Hermione fully intended to brawl the Death Eater if he didn't finish his meal.

For several minutes Hermione engaged the elf in back-and-forth. Hermione won the argument in the end, obviously, and seconds after acquiescing—the elf fully convinced Hermione only wished to serve _as per her station_ —Dessy apparated them both directly into Dolohov's private chambers where the man himself was collapsed face-down on the bed.

"As requested, Miss!" Dessy bid as farewell, bowing out of the room with a final _crack_.

The sound had Dolohov on his feet with his wand extended faster than Hermione could focus her eyes on him.

" _Chto za chert?"_ Dolohov growled, advancing on her without lowering his wand. "I told Dessy to take you to your rooms," he accused, his voice rough and thick from sleep.

A pang of empathy zinged unwanted through Hermione at the look of him—he was pale, tired, and clearly still healing from whatever had burned him. _Definitely needs to eat_ , Hermione decided. The strong feeling of uncomfortable emptiness in her stomach, no doubt emanating from the man in front of her through their bond, seconded the notion heartily. She gestured impatiently with the plate and raised her eyebrows. "I can feel your physical hunger through the bond and it's driving me insane," she bit out, internally pleased that her voice didn't shake under the force of his angry stare. "I know better than to order your elf around, and frankly, I didn't trust her enough to just leave the food by your bedside while I go on in agony. I've eaten like a pig today and I can still feel the need for nourishment, so it must be coming from you. Now eat before I pounce and _force_ you to." Once more, Hermione extended the plate. For all of her forwardness and bravado, Hermione was very aware she couldn't exactly _force_ the man to do anything. The very real, present danger of him lashing out at her for her momentary bossiness was beginning to cool into tendrils of fear by the time Dolohov extended one finely-boned hand and took the plate from her shaking grasp.

His face was an impassive stone mask as he took the plate and turned back towards the bed. Hermione's breath was a fearful clog in her throat until he sat down and took a hearty bite from the proffered sandwich. " _Spasibo,_ " he mumbled around the bread between his teeth.

Hermione took the growl as a word of thanks and leaned back against the bedroom door, her head coming to knock against the wood as the horrid hunger began to subside the more he ate. Idly, Hermione tried to turn the knob on the door—as expected, it was spelled shut. _Paranoid man_ , she thought with a strange fondness. Even in this fortress warded against all intruders he still felt the need to lock himself in his room to sleep soundly.

The fondness soured to sharp, bitter self-disgust and she pushed away from the door to drift closer to the fireplace. The room was cold— _why was the window open?_ —and the flames dying on the hearth were just warm enough to chase away the chill. Fondness was not an emotion she should ever have for the terrible Death Eater, her captor and torturer. _Yet here you are_ , mused a treacherous voice in the back of her mind, _bringing him food and looking after him_.

 _Only because I'm forced to feel what he feels_ , she snapped back to herself.

"This is certainly unexpected," his voice interrupted, something resembling mirth curling around his words as he swallowed. When Hermione put her back to the fireplace and faced him she saw he was nearly halfway through with the monster of a sandwich, and true to his Pureblooded upbringing, there wasn't a single stray crumb clinging to the unkempt scruff on his jaw as he smiled devilishly at her. "If I had known pressing you to the door with my mouth and wandering hands was all it would take to turn you domestic I would have done it days ago."

Hermione's cheeks flared with embarrassed heat, her stomach flipping, her arms coming to cross protectively in front of her chest. Her transfigured dress was too thin for the chill of the room, that was all—the goosebumps came from no other source, no sir. "Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, her eyes focusing on the open window on the far wall. "I'd sooner poison you than look after your needs of my own volition. I've been feeling your hunger for hours, now."

"I got used to hunger in Azkaban," he offered with a shrug, his voice thick once more around a bite of bread. For all of his efficiency and neatness, Hermione decided, other Purebloods—like the Malfoys—must find his eating habits particularly brutish. Hermione couldn't remember the last time she had seen a Pureblood willingly talk with their mouth full…and Ron didn't count. Ron was…Ron. "Don't feel it quite like I used to."

Hermione turned back to face the fire as Dolohov finished his meal, and blissfully, the insistent hunger was gone. Hermione could have wept with relief.

Dolohov's voice was a wet blanket on the blessed reprieve. "You're more comfortable than I would have expected, caring for others the way you do," he mused. There was something about his voice that bothered her—when Hermione turned to look at him, Dolohov was staring hard off to a far corner of the room, his expression shadowed. The plate had been silently banished to a nearby nightstand, and his wand was nowhere to be seen.

Hermione scoffed and gave a particularly unladylike snort. "If it weren't for me, Harry and Ron would have starved on the run," Hermione bragged, a touch of warmth pulling at the corners of her mouth. "I was in charge of serving us dinner most nights. I guess it's payback for all the times they forced me to eat at Hogwarts when I'd sequester myself in the library."

Dolohov's expression, now sharp and contemplative, made her pause. Nothing she had said gave away too much information, she decided—it was common knowledge the Golden Trio had been on the run, and mentioning a tidbit about their dynamic couldn't hurt. Filling the tense silence with mindless chatter was more comfortable, anyway. "Ron in particular could eat a horse if we'd let him. The appetite on him was impressive if nothing else."

"Ron," Dolohov stated, trying the taste of the name and deciding it was lacking. Distaste touched at the dark wizard's face as he stared at his fidgeting captive, who was now regretting saying anything about her friends in the first place. "Ronald Weasley, correct?"

Unease made Hermione hesitant to answer. Perhaps her nervous chatter hadn't been as harmless as she assumed it would be. "Yes?" she confirmed, her tone lilting slightly as if questioning him.

Dolohov's expression continued to darken, and in the falling shadows of early evening it made him look horribly menacing. "You speak of this one with special regard. What was he to you?"

Dolohov's loaded question stunned Hermione for several reasons. _What_ was _Ron to me?_ she thought to herself, her internal musings echoing her captor's inquiry. _And why did Dolohov care?_ "He was one of my best friends," she answered honestly, her discomfort keeping her voice tense and quiet. A vein of steel showed itself—"He and Harry both were. I would do anything to keep them safe, so that's all you'll be able to pry out of me willingly about them."

With dark eyes and a heavy brow, Dolohov regarded Hermione cuttingly as his previously lax hands curled to fists on his knees. The man leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, and from the position of his hands and his rolled-up shirtsleeves Hermione could make out the ghastly Dark Mark above his left wrist. _Just another reminder of his wrongdoings, if you needed one_ , she thought to herself. Hermione knew her earlier words were cheap, but Dolohov couldn't torture her for information anymore, not with the bond protecting her from harm.

"I would press for more, but I've decided it doesn't matter," Dolohov growled, pinning her with his dark gaze from his perch on the bed. "It doesn't particularly matter what the Weasley boy was to you before you were brought to Malfoy Manor—you're _mine_ now, and if he tries to take you away from me I'll take as much pleasure in killing him as I did in killing his uncles."

Nausea, cool and sudden, lurched in Hermione's gut. She reached out a hand and steadied herself on the mantle— _what was he talking about?_ Mr. Weasley was an only child, that she remembered, and Molly's brothers—

Oh. _Oh_.

"You went to Azkaban for the murders of Gideon and Fabian Prewett," Hermione stated flatly. How could she have forgotten? A memory of the summer before her fifth year as she and Harry seated in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place while Sirius pointed out figures in a photograph of the original members of the Order of the Phoenix rose to the surface. _And this here is the Prewett twins_ , Sirius had explained, pointing out two men standing beside a much younger, thinner Molly Weasley. They had looked so much like Fred and George that it had made Hermione's heart ache. _Killed by Dolohov, they were. Good men, too. Molly misses them. Charlie and Bill were still babes when they were murdered, it's a shame Fred and George never got to meet them_.

Dolohov didn't smile in answer, this time, but the single, solemn nod confirmed her statement so completely that Hermione was almost afraid the man would take pride in his past crime. She couldn't take the sight of him smiling now. "All that red hair isn't so pretty when it's covered in blood," Dolohov continued, his accent thickening with residual anger at a private thought Hermione couldn't discern. "Can't imagine Ron's would look much different. He and Potter would be wise to keep away from you, _solnyshko_. I'm not letting you go back to them. You don't belong to them any longer."

Shocked and appalled, Hermione turned back to the fireplace, putting her back to her captor in a bid for putting the illusion of space between them. Something severe and relentless tugging at the base of her skull—the bond, probably—told her it wouldn't be wise to step away from him at the moment, not literally. "You're wrong, Antonin. I will belong with them always, and you keeping me from them doesn't change that."

Guilt, as hot as the unwanted desire that had felled her earlier, stung somewhere in her chest. _You've never reacted to Ron like this_ , that treacherous voice suggested.

"Let's get you back to your rooms before I do something we'll both regret," Dolohov barked, getting to his feet and startling Hermione with his sudden movement. He wouldn't meet her eyes when she turned, now, and she wasn't sure if she felt relieved or afraid. "This time I'll make sure Dessy doesn't take you outside of your chambers without my permission," he added grumpily. "Any more unannounced visits from you and I'm afraid I'll kill us both before I can take you before the Dark Lord tomorrow evening."

"We still have Vows to make to Professor Snape," Hermione reminded him. Panic was starting to claw up Hermione's throat—did they really have to do this so soon?

"Indeed we do." Dolohov made a lazy gesture with his hand and summoned his elf with a quick word, and his bedroom door eased open with a slight creak of the hinges. "Now _out_ , witch. Back to your cage."

* * *

Pansy Parkinson wasn't one to explore the lesser-used halls of the castle usually, but even the most routine-driven witch would be enticed to pace the corridors of Hogwarts eventually. _Especially_ when frustration stabbed through that witch's chest like a hot iron poker. Pacing was the cure-all of the ages, that's what her father used to say. Pansy didn't have a glass of firewhiskey in her hand nor did she don a velvet smoking jacket, but the sentiment was all the same. The evening was inching into the small hours of the morning and Pansy was abusing her status as a Slytherin Prefect to slouch about the halls after curfew, her pacing haven taken her to the seventh floor.

Her _situation_ with Draco wasn't getting any easier—the boy was bothered by something, and more often than not he would be quiet, distracted, and withdrawn from her. Their romantic relationship was in its early stages, that was true, but their friendship spanned back over a decade; Pansy could tell quite easily when something was on the young Malfoy's mind, and this was the first time she could remember that he didn't outright tell her what it was. The matter required a delicate touch, no doubt; Pansy had a sneaking suspicion that Draco's uncomfortable demeanor had something to do with his status as a Death Eater, and that was not something she could ask after with any degree of grace. Pansy was many things—pragmatic, studious, sarcastic, usually in good humor—but daintiness was a trait she didn't possess. Her father would accuse her of having the forward attitude of a blunt wizard, and even then, he said it with more prideful admiration than any real reprimand. Her mother, on the other hand, was the sentinel of all things gracefully feminine in the Parkinson household. In her ladylike lessons as a child Pansy had always failed at tact, much to her mother's dismay.

It was _maddening_. She couldn't talk to anyone else about this problem—not even Millicent—and she didn't feel comfortable enough to ask Draco outright. Memories of her hounding Draco for his whereabouts and actions during their sixth year caused her to flinch; she never did find out what he had been up to at the Dark Lord's insistence, and all her questions to him only served to drive a wedge between them. _I'm fine, Pansy_ , was a phrase Pansy dreaded hearing out of Draco's mouth. The blond git was _not_ fine, she could plainly see that, because even if he had everyone else in Slytherin House fooled, he could never fool _her_.

The anxiety was messing with her sleep. Thus: pacing.

The classrooms on the seventh floor were seldom used, and the flagstones that made up the floors and walls were of a lighter color than that seen anywhere else in the castle. The tall windows along the western wall vaulted to high points many feet above their sills and weak moonlight spilled into the corridor, illuminating it with a pale grey glow; there were no statues, tapestries, or portraits decorating the walls, and the bareness seemed strangely fitting for Pansy's tired melancholy. Her slippers muffled the sounds of her padding footsteps and she stared dejectedly off into space—she hadn't wanted any portraits watching her, anyhow. The Carrows liked her, but not enough to have her avoid punishment if she were truly caught, given that she had no real business being out after curfew. The Prefect badge pinned to her night robe was only an effective shield against other wandering students, and the chances of coming across someone else were extremely slim. _Not under the school's new management, anyway_.

So imagine her surprise when she heard not one, but _two_ sets of footsteps advancing down the corridor toward her.

Heart in her throat and pulse pounding like a solid fist on a metal door, Pansy whipped out her wand and cast a quick disillusionment charm over herself, the sensation of a frosty egg cracking over her hairline causing her already-firm goosebumps to raise more adamantly. She stumbled back against the windowsill and crouched down, her hand clenched anxiously in both hands. _Good gods, why didn't I huddle by the wall instead?_ she bemoaned silently, suddenly aware that the soft moonlight might call attention to her shimmering, not-quite invisible outline. Before she could scuttle across the hall to the blank patch of shadowed wall opposite, two dark figures materialized around the corner.

Out of context and half shrouded in shadow since the wall sconces weren't lit on this floor, Pansy didn't grasp the identities of the two intruders until she heard their voices. "Are you sure that's what Aberforth meant when he said they were coming?" asked Ginny Weasley, the Gryffindor girl's normally brash tones tempered by the want to stay quiet in the creeping night. The bright sweep of the Gryffindor's gorgeous red mane confirmed her identity— _but what would she be doing on the seventh floor with_ —

"I'm certain of it," confirmed Neville Longbottom. Both Gryffindors were approaching ever closer with a light, sure step, stopping every few feet to peer cautiously behind them as they came closer to the middle of the long corridor. "He actually stepped through the portrait tunnel this time to tell us in person. Seamus said he wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't heard it for himself."

Weasley and Longbottom came to a halt just mere feet from where Pansy crouched, both of them facing the blank stretch of wall. Pansy couldn't breathe for how close they were to her hiding spot. There was no real reason to hide since they weren't other Prefects or a Professor—Pansy had the power to give them both detention, in fact—but their topic of conversation was too curious to interrupt. _Why had they come all the way to the seventh floor to discuss someone named Aberforth? And what was this about a portrait hole?_

"I'm not sure I believe it, either," the Weasley girl mused wistfully. "I sure hope Aberforth is up at this hour, because I have a million questions I want to ask him."

Longbottom's hand clapped down on the shorter girl's shoulder in a friendly gesture. "I'm sure he won't mind even if he isn't, Gin."

Then, amazingly, a door materialized into existence on the previously blank wall before the pair. Within seconds the two Gryffindors had retreated inside the secret entrance, and as soon as the ornate door clicked shut behind them it dissolved into untouched flagstone once more.

Pansy was so startled that her magic failed her and the disillusionment charm dissolved away completely—she was left crouching in front of the window, tendrils of her dark hair mussed in front of her face as she gaped after where the door had been. _That wasn't possible_ , she thought wildly as she pressed to her feet. _The Room of Requirement is a myth. Dad always said so_.

For the first time in several weeks Pansy forgot all about her troubles with Draco—now embroiled in a mystery of her own, she spared no thought to her troubled, brooding boyfriend.

No doubt come morning she would go back to worrying about him. But for now…now she would camp here and wait for Longbottom and the Weasley sister to return. _I'm going to find out what they're doing in there and what this mess about Aberforth and 'someone coming' is_ , she decided. Resolute and given purpose, Pansy recast the disillusionment charm and again crouched down against the wall, ready to wait all night if she had to.

Add curiosity to another list of her traits—she never liked cats, anyway.

* * *

 **A/N: Long time, no see! I apologize for the super late update; I am currently in the middle of my last semester of undergrad before I graduate with my biochemistry degree in May, so things have been insanely busy! I haven't had as much time to devote to writing as I'd like, but rest assured that this story has not been abandoned and is just getting started. So there we have it: Hermione and Dolohov continue to navigate what it means to be bound to one another, Dolohov's intentions towards Hermione are slowly beginning to change, and the long-awaited Pansy Parkinson POV is here. What did you think? I said in earlier chapters I'd like to explore her character further...I have many, many plans for our dear Pansy. Have any guesses to what Ginny and Neville were talking about when she caught them? The last line of this chapter was inspired by the old saying, "Curiosity killed the cat." Satisfaction brought it back, though, am I right?**

 **Next Up: our ill-fated pair makes those Vows to Snape so they can go before Voldemort as planned and Draco finally gets a hold of Hermione's wand. Big Brother Thorfinn will make another appearance.**

 **Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and put this story on your alert lists! I feel insanely spoiled by your attentions and appreciate your thoughts immensely. Be safe and take care, everyone xx**


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